Forging Hope
by Ellfine
Summary: After a terrible battle during the War of Wrath, King Arafinwë of the Noldor becomes despondent with dire consequences to himself and his army.
1. Chapter 1

_Many thanks to my betas Fiondil and Alassiel and to GloryBee, Dana, and Istarnie for their help with this story._

_**Disclaimer:** Playing in Tolkien's sandbox and making no money from it._

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**Chapter 1**

The battle had gone badly. The enemy came forth in far greater numbers than expected, beating them back well beyond the line they had so recently claimed. The casualties had been many. Many sons. Many fathers. Many brothers. Many friends.

Death is to be expected in war, but these last two days so very many had died…

As king, he was expected to go among the living, comforting the wounded, consoling the next of kin, inspiring the rest to fight again tomorrow. But who was there to comfort him?

This whole war saw its roots in the foul deeds of his own kin. It was a son of Finwë who so blindly led the Noldor to this forsaken land, to their downfall and utter ruin. The remaining sons of Finwë spent their lives and their blood trying to win battles which were beyond them. For what can mere elves hope to do against a Vala?

Now here he was King Arafinwë from over the sea, Valinor's last son of Finwë come with mighty armies of Noldor and Vanyar and the glory of the Valar to save Endórë – but come too late. He had arrived in Alqualondë mere hours too late to stop the kinslaying. Now he had arrived in Endorë too late to save all but a pitiful remnant of the exiled Noldor – several decades too late.

At times he wondered what it would be like to raise his sword alongside his brother or his sons. But after what he had just witnessed…

How many of his friends did he see on the battle field clutching the dying or lifeless bodies of those to whom they had given life? How many cried on the stilled shoulders of their fathers or grandfathers one last time? How many clung to their brothers or cousins or lifelong friends seeking something which was now beyond them to give in return?

It had been his own choice to remain behind in Valinor instead of continuing on the fool's errand when the Noldor sought to leave Aman. He had done the right thing. He had been the one who was wise. But now he could no longer help but wonder...

Who held his sons and his brother and his nephews when they struggled to breathe their last? Who comforted those who remained behind after the loss of each one? Who instilled the hope so the rest could go on fighting the next day?

In doing the right thing, he had saved so many of his people, but he had failed his kin. He had failed his beloved sons. That barb stung more deeply, more profoundly than any wound inflicted upon him thus far.

He had failed them.

Voices from outside his tent spoke in hushed tones about his mood and potential volatility, recommending he be left undisturbed for a while. His advisors knew him well. But perhaps not well enough…

If he could, for just a short time, be free of the advisors and the servants and the guards and the captains constantly smothering him with more and more reports and grievous news…If he could just be free of the wails of those mourning their dead, and the cries of the dying whose lives were slowly seeping away, perhaps he could settle again. Perhaps he could find peace.

No, he would never be at peace, but perhaps he could contain his guilt and his grief, sealing them tightly inside once again. Then he would have the strength to face tomorrow.

But he knew he would never be left completely alone while he remained in the camp. Still girt in his bloody armor and helm with his great sword still belted at his hip from the battle, he thrust his way outside. No one dared speak to him, let alone waylay him as he strode angrily through the maze of tents and out of the camp.

Once out of sight of the encamped Noldorin army, he broke into a blind run. Neither knowing where he was going nor caring, he sprinted on, trying subconsciously to escape from the horrible thoughts and feelings battering his heart and brain. If he ran a little harder, a little farther, a little faster, maybe he would find again his brother and his nephews, maybe he would discover he had been lied to, maybe he would bring his sons back– alive. But that was not to be. His sons were long dead. His siblings were long dead. All that remained of his brothers' lines in all of Endórë were two sons and the grandson of one, and of the other, one grandson and twin great-great grandsons. He had come too late to save any of the others – once again, too late.

He did not know how he would break the news to his sisters-in-law and to his mother. Even worse, what was he to tell his wife when he returned home? What could he tell her? It would break her heart. She had begged him to bring her word that Eärendil was wrong and all of their children still lived. It had been confirmed for him that their only daughter yet survived with a handful of Noldor and Sindar on the Island of Balar, but their sons, their beloved sons…

His grief finally caught him and he stumbled face first into the dirt beside a stream. The tears he had fought and denied for so long, since the first word he had received in Valinor of his sons' fate, finally blinded his eyes. His gloved hands clawed at the earth unable to lift the weight of his sorrow to push himself up off the ground again. His sons, his beloved sons, cursed by Mandos, were gone. His body shook and shuddered with the force of his sobs until no more tears would come.

When he finally became aware of himself again, it was early evening. The setting sun adorned the cloudy sky with a vibrant splash of color in mockery of his pain. The skin on his face felt tight with the mud caking him where the dirt had mixed with his tears. He crawled over to the edge of the stream and looked down at the wretched being staring back at him. The red eyes, the muddy face, the dirty helm splattered with the blood of the enemy, the tangled, matted, once golden hair all looked as if they belonged to someone else, not to himself. This was the face of the grief that still echoed in the hollows of his heart, and he hated it.

He tore off his helm and threw it as hard as he could. He heard it clang against something hard some distance away. He ripped off his gloves and threw them, too. Plunging his hands into the icy early winter waters of the stream, he tried to scrub away the horrible image that continued to glare back at him from the water. Now a red face framed by tangled wet warrior's braids stared back through bloodshot grey eyes, but the pain-ridden, pitiful creature was still there.

Why did his children, his kith and kin have to go? Why did they not turn back with those who returned to their senses at the proclamation of the Doom of the Noldor? Why did they have to go on to die meaningless deaths in hopeless battles they stood no chance of winning?

The loss of his sons hurt the worst. His dear sons were gone…

Tears started to his eyes once again as he knelt beside the stream, only vaguely aware of its song as it rushed past. The years had rushed past since he had been left there on the coast of Valinor, abandoned by his family – or was he the one who abandoned them to do the right thing, to return home with his wife – alone?

Now he was the reluctant, untrained king of a broken people mended over the years by his care, nurtured by what little wisdom remained in his broken heart. Ironically, the Noldor were once again dying for the cause of fighting Morgoth in Endórë, only this time blessed by the Valar in their quest. But the loss of each soldier in his charge was like the loss of one of his kin all over again, the pain of the survivors his pain. How could he possibly continue on this way?

A sudden sting tore into his left bicep. Startled beyond belief, he looked over to find an arrow protruding from his arm. Where had it come from? More arrows landed in the ground around him and in the stream in front of him. He stared at them for a moment uncomprehendingly. As awareness of his surroundings came rushing back to him, he rose and drew his sword.

Four orcs came crashing through the bushes. He dispatched the first two orcs without much effort. He slashed a third across the chest, but as he turned to engage the fourth, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in the back of his right thigh. His right leg collapsed with the searing pain, causing him to fall hard on his left knee. He parried once, but the fourth orc moved around behind him and struck him hard across the right shoulder. His armor protected him, but he felt something snap beneath the blow and he doubled over, dropping his sword.

Here he was, the King of the Noldor, bowed down on his knees, defenseless.

This was it.

He was going to die.

He was going to join his sons. He should have died with honor like his sons, but he would not. In a senseless battle he should have won, he had been defeated by his own grief, his own stupidity, his own self. He never should have left the camp alone.

The orc circled him, laughing as he struggled to straighten into a more upright position.

He glared at it with all of the loathing and hatred he could muster.

It poked at his hair, seemingly in fascination, then slashed the side of his face.

He tottered dangerously, most of his weight balanced precariously on his one good knee. He couldn't even raise his hand to the warm wetness trickling from the burning cut now dripping blood from his chin. The pain radiating from his wounds was steadily becoming unbearable.

The orc finally stilled beside him.

Breathing hard, trying not to cry out from the agony that enveloped him, he watched the approach of his death. He wondered if he could possibly hurt any more than he already did, but knew there would only be a moment's more pain before it was all over.

The orc slowly, deliberately, drew back its sword. As the downward swing began, the orc convulsed violently, an arrow running cleanly through its neck.

Bewildered yet relieved, Arafinwë turned his head in the direction from which the arrow had come, looking for his savior. Suddenly a white hot pain exploded behind his eyes and he saw no more.

Softness enveloped his body. He felt something warm and damp caress his forehead lingeringly, then start down the left side of his face. A twinge of pain jerked him instantly awake. Eyes wide open, he looked in the direction of the pain and straight into the concerned blue eyes of a beautiful, but weary face. The face was young and female, framed with tendrils of silvery hair that wisped away from their braid.

The face smiled and said something to him in a language that he only half understood.

He started to shake his head to tell her he did not comprehend, but the movement made him dizzy and nauseous. He tried to lift his right hand to his head, but his arm exploded in pain. He tried to lift his left arm to touch the source of discomfort in his right, but that arm would not work either. He bent his right leg to lever himself up so he could look around and at least see what was wrong, but that burst of agony hurt most of all. Panic filled him. What was happening?

Eyes darting madly, he nearly screamed, "Why do I hurt so? What has happened to me? Where am I?"

Strong hands gently but firmly gripped his left shoulder and pressed against his chest, forcing him back down as the blue eyes gazed at him curiously.

"Please…," he begged, gasping for air. "Please, answer me. Please tell me what is going on."

Taking a deep breath, she slowly replied as if carefully choosing each word before she spoke it. "You are from Valinor, are you not? You speak Quenya freely and your eyes have a light in them that I have not seen before. You must be one of the warriors of the Eldar."

He looked at her perplexed, a feeling of dread creeping into his being. What was this place she spoke of: Valinor? Who or what were the Eldar? It seemed he should know this, but he could not quite remember. "I…I do not know of what you speak."

She tenderly grasped his hands, smiling at him encouragingly. "Tell me. What is your name?"

He was afraid now. Had he ever known genuine fear before this moment? He was not certain. But there was one thing of which he was certain as he met her hopeful gaze.

"I do not know who I am," he whispered incredulously.

He felt insignificant and scared. Inside he was hollow and alone. So very, very alone.

A deeply concerned look replaced her smile as she asked, "Do you remember anything about what happened to you or where you were when I found you or how you came to be there alone?"

The emptiness inside of him ached. "I remember nothing," he whispered.

She sighed. "I should not be surprised that your memory fails you. You received a horrible blow to the head by an orc's sword. I shot him through the neck, but the blade turned in his hands as he completed his swing. You were hit hard with the flat of the blade instead of with the edge which would have ended your life."

He felt as if his life were over anyway, but he did not know why.

Gently touching each body part as she described its injuries, she continued. "I removed an arrow from your left arm and also found a knife buried to the hilt in the back of your right thigh. Your right shoulder is broken. You have a cut on your face below your left eye extending almost all the way down to your chin. You were kneeling on the ground waiting for the orc to behead you when I saved you."

"I watched you kill three other orcs, and you were so strong and brave. But I was so scared and…" She leaned back from where she knelt beside his bed, bowing her head and averting her gaze. "And I was too slow to bring up my bow to kill the fourth before it injured your shoulder and face and hit you in the head. It is my fault you have those injuries. I am so very sorry."

A wave of weariness swept over him. Taking a deep breath in an attempt at fighting it back, he responded. "I…I do not understand. Was it your responsibility to watch over me? I cannot imagine who I must be that one such as you was to look after me."

She met his eyes again, surprise and amusement on her pretty face. "It was not my responsibility to watch over you. I had never seen you before I came upon you as I returned from checking the traps for the day. Your sword and armor were very fine, so I thought you must be someone important, but you faced the orcs alone. Perhaps the others who should have been with you died in a previous battle, for I found no other bodies besides yours and the orcs', but dried orc blood stained your armor."

Tears came to his eyes and slid down his cheeks, burning the cut on his face.

That was it. That was why he had been alone. He had lost them. They were dead. Those who should have been with him were dead. He could not remember who they were, just that they meant everything to him. They should have been at his side, gallant and noble and strong, but he had already lost them and now he was alone.

Amidst his pain, he was only vaguely aware of the woman climbing up on the bed and stretching out beside him. With the utmost care, she gathered him in her arms, resting his head against her breast.

"I am sorry," she said softly. "I am so very sorry for what you must be remembering right now."

Unable to control himself, he sobbed into her dress. Her gentle arms held him, protecting him from he knew not what, but keeping him safe just the same. He did not know how long he lay there mourning in her embrace, but when the wave of weariness came again, he buried his face in her warmth and surrendered his consciousness to it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sounds slowly filled his perception once again: a crackling fire, a howling wind beating against wooden walls, quiet breathing. As his eyes focused, he realized he lay on a large bed, covered in patchwork quilts. The fireplace across from the bed served as the only source of light in the night-dark room. A couple of sturdy tables, a few straight wooden chairs, some storage chests pushed up against unadorned walls, and a plain hardwood cabinet in a corner were the only objects he could immediately identify.

He turned his head in the direction of the breathing. A beautiful face framed by curly wisps of silvery hair rested close to him. It somehow seemed right that a silver–haired woman should be lying beside him, but something about the curve of her face seemed to not belong. For some reason she was not the one he was expecting to see or used to seeing at his side, but he could not say why. Rolling onto his side in order to see her more clearly, brought sharp pain to his right shoulder and agony to his leg. Gasping, he clutched his shoulder and then his leg only to find them bandaged.

Why were they bandaged? Why was he hurting? His upper left arm was also sore, and upon further examination, proved to be bandaged as well.

He felt a reassuring hand come to rest on his bare chest, as the woman whispered, "It is all right. Be still. You are safe. If you move too much you will reopen your wounds and further damage your shoulder . Be still."

His wounds…Oh yes. He had been attacked by orcs and she had saved his life.

He took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm, watching as she sat up and poured a cup of water from a jug on a small bedside table he had not noticed before. She turned back to him and helped him to sit up a bit in the bed.

"Do you think you can hold the cup or do you need me to help you?"

"I can manage for myself," he croaked in reply, ignoring the twinges of pain as he extended his left arm to take the cup from her.

"Drink slowly," she warned as she handed him the cup.

The cold drink felt wonderful to his parched throat. He did not know that water could taste so good.

"Thank you so very much," he whispered after he drained the cup and handed it back to her. "I do not hurt as much as I did before. How long have I been asleep?"

"Five days." She placed the cup on the table and lay back down in the bed, looking at him. "You heal quickly after the manner of your kind."

"My kind?" he asked curiously.

She propped herself up on an elbow, the collar of her night dress falling and baring one shoulder as she gazed upon him. Bright blue eyes twinkled with her gentle smile as she responded, "You are an elf of the Eldar from across the sea, probably of the Vanyar judging from your golden hair. I am of the Atani, a mortal woman."

He reached out, curiously touching her face, tracing the soft skin of her features from forehead to chin and down her neck to her bare shoulder. "You do not feel different. You are lovely to look upon. And yet you are mortal?"

Her face flushed red. "Yes, I am mortal."

"Remarkable," he softly observed, brushing the backs of his fingers against her face.

"Where are we?" He asked.

"My house on the outskirts of an Atani settlement in the middle of a forest. We are mainly of the peoples of Hador and Bëor."

Her response did not help him much. "I do not recognize those names."

"Finrod Felagund…Findaráto, a prince of the Noldor and former King of Nargothrond met and taught my ancestors of Bëor's house," she explained.

Findaráto? He had heard that name before, but he could not place it. It was as good a place to start as any. "Please tell me more of Findaráto. Do you know him?"

"I never knew him. He had golden hair like you and was said to have been very handsome and very wise. He was beloved of the people of Bëor who named him Nom, which means "wisdom". He taught us much and helped us to achieve our greatest glory before Morgoth destroyed all that we had worked so hard to build. Findaráto aided my distant kinsman Beren in a quest to retrieve a silmaril and gave his life defending Beren from a wolf in Sauron's dungeon at Minas Tirith. Beren survived and married Lúthien, the daughter of King Thingol, well King Elwë and Melian the Maia."

She looked at him hopefully, but he shook his head. "None of that means anything to me."

"Findaráto was also a close friend of one of our wise women named Andreth," she continued. "His younger brother, Prince Aicanáro, was in love with Andreth, but never pursued the relationship because elves do not wed in time of war. Aicanáro died in the Dagor Bragollach and Andreth perished soon afterward. I have a book Andreth wrote detailing some of her discussions with Findaráto. Perhaps in the morning I can read some of it to you. It is written in Quenya, so you could also read it for yourself if you so choose. It has been snowing for the last three days, so there is little else to do but read."

"I would like that very much. Thank you." He was silent for a time contemplating what she had said. He recognized the name Aicanáro, too, but did not know why. There was only emptiness where his memories should have been.

"Has anyone come searching for me since I have been here?"

She shook her head. "No one has come. Most likely, if anyone did search for you, the hunt would have proved unproductive as I am certain that the tracks were covered by the snow rather quickly."

He painfully raised his hand to rub his face. He could feel the tension mounting inside of him. Certainly someone should have come for him by now. Or was he truly alone? What was he going to do now? What could he do? A spot on the side of his head was beginning to throb.

In a subdued tone, he asked, "What is to become of me? I know not who I am nor what I am nor what I have done in my life."

She smiled kindly, reaching over to smooth his hair away from his face. "You can stay with me as long as you like. I have plenty of food in store, though I only have this one bed. I do not mind sharing the food or the bed, if you do not mind."

He looked over at her. "I have little choice in the matter and no other options available to me at this time." Smiling meekly, he added, "I do not mind sharing."

He considered her again. She truly was lovely to look upon and the feeling about her was one of patient kindness and warmth of spirit.

"Tell me, why do you not have a husband?"

She cast down her gaze as a look of sadness crossed her face. Her fingers slid through his hair and down to rest on his shoulder. When she met his eyes again, he regretted having asked for he could sense that the sorrow in her was very great.

"My husband went to the war to fight alongside the elves against Morgoth. He was killed in battle. That same year, I lost both of our children, a son and a daughter, to a horrible illness that spread through our settlement."

He reached up, brushing a tear from her cheek.

"I am only 26 years old," she complained bitterly. "And I am a childless widow with little hope of remarriage for there are few men left now. Most have gone to fight in the war or they are dead. I survive as best I can here. We all help each other out. My sister and her husband and children live close by, so that is a comfort."

"I will help you in what ever way I can," he offered hoping to cheer her. He gingerly reached over and took her hand in his. The pain of her loss tore at his heart. Did he know this kind of loss, the loss of a spouse or a child? The only response he received was the echo of the ache in the emptiness of his spirit.

"I know not what my skills are," he continued in a hopeful voice, "but I am certain I can find something to do to ease your burden and help you in payment for your kindness and hospitality."

She smiled sadly. "Thank you. Your help and companionship would be much appreciated."

He smiled in response and squeezed her hand.

She rested her head on her pillow, still holding his hand firmly, her other hand tucked under her cheek as she lay facing him. "You should sleep. You still are not well."

He did feel weary. At least he was not alone in the world now. "You are correct. Good night…" He paused a moment. "I do not know your name."

She smiled sleepily, and whispered "Faroniel."

He repeated her name, learning the feel of it on his tongue.

"You need a name, too," she said.

"What would you call me?"

"Laurehér"

"What? Why would you call me something like that? That is rather presumptuous. I do not know if I even have a title."

"Well, you asked what I would call you, so there you have it," she laughed softly.

He gazed at her a moment, noting the way her joy touched her eyes, then he sighed. "Very well. Until you come up with a more suitable name or even better, I remember my name, you can call me Laurehér."

"Sleep well, my Laurehér," she struggled to stifle a yawn, snuggling in to her pillow.

He lay staring at the ceiling, finding the sound of her breathing oddly comforting as it evened out in deep slumber. Sleep soon claimed him once again.

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The passing of a few more days finally brought an end to the snow. Faroniel fashioned Laurehér a crutch from a long stick she had found while foraging for firewood, enabling him to move about the room and see to his needs unassisted. His right arm remained in a sling, but his left arm had healed completely as had the cut on his face. Faroniel had patched his clothing as best she could and brought out some clothes that had belonged to her husband, tailoring them to try to fit Laurehér's leaner, slightly taller, more muscular frame.

The cut of this new clothing seemed odd to Laurehér. For some reason, it seemed unusual to him to wear bland linen shirts with unadorned billowing sleeves and loose collars. The leggings had an unusual cut as well and, although they were extremely utilitarian, they at least were comfortable. He felt strange garbing himself in the drab earthy tones of beiges and browns that Faroniel's husband had worn. Though he was grateful to Faroniel for her generosity and kind efforts, he found he preferred to wear what had been salvaged of his own clothing whenever possible.

There was little for Laurehér to do in the tiny house but read the few precious books and talk to Faroniel, though she did not seem to mind. He found that he enjoyed whittling and carving images in the firewood as he listened to her soothing voice. Sometimes she spoke of her dear sister who lived nearby with a husband and four children. Other times, she told of the history of the Atani from the time they came over the mountains to the banding together of refugees from the great battles into tiny settlements throughout this forest. Though none of it held much meaning for him, Laurehér mulled it over in the quiet times as she sat sewing or cooking. There had to be some clue about his origins somewhere.

The day the snow storm ended, Laurehér sat on the bed, musing over the book by Andreth that Faroniel had read to him his first full day awake. A knock sounded on the door, startling them both. Faroniel leaped up from her seat by the fire where she had been sewing and opened the door.

A tall man dressed against the weather in animal skins stood just outside. The lines on the visitor's face, half hidden by long shaggy yellow hair and a beard, betrayed his mortality. However the keen gaze of his wary blue eyes left no doubt that he was not pleased by Laurehér's presence.

Laurehér arose, leaning on his crutch, knowing somehow that this was proper etiquette when greeting someone. The man glared at him, scowling as he stomped snow from his boots before he entered the house. Fearing a confrontation, Laurehér kept his face impassive lest he anger the man further.

Faroniel and the man spoke rapidly in a strange language, obviously arguing about something. They both gestured toward Laurehér often, but he maintained his relaxed, unimposing stance. Finally, the man angrily dumped a pack on the floor, eyed Laurehér lethally, and left.

Why was this man so angry? Laurehér wondered. And why does he seem to hate me so?

Closing the door, Faroniel turned to him, her face full of concern.

"That was my sister-husband Belegon. He is not happy that you are here." She wrung her hands in obvious apprehension. "I told him what I knew of you, but he fears that having you here will bring the war upon us again. We have hidden safely here for a few years now, while the war has raged around us. He believes that with you here, other elves will come for you and try to recruit the precious few able-bodied men we have left to us to go fight in the war. I assured him that you do not even know who you are and there is no way that your people could find you, but he was not satisfied."

Faroniel walked over to Laurehér and placed her cold hand on his face, gently stroking his cheek. Her hands always seemed to be cold. Was this normal for mortals?

Looking into his eyes, she softly said, "I fear what will befall you when the elders learn of you. Belegon is one of the few strong men left to us. He holds much sway in the village."

Trying to smile reassuringly, Laurehér replied, "I could tell them myself that there is little I remember of the fighting or anything really, but if Belegon will not listen to you, then why should he hear me?" Leaning into her caress in a meek effort at warming her hand, he pondered her words and her fears for a time.

Suddenly her hand stilled as her face lit up and she proposed, "If you learn Sindarin and find something you can do to contribute to the welfare of the village, then perhaps…perhaps it would show Belegon and the elders that you are a refugee, too. If they think that you only wish to survive and blend in, they will not fear that you are here to lead our men to war."

Gently, he took her hand in his and asked, "But what if my people do come for me? I will have to go with them. And it may be that they _will_ try to recruit others to join the war with them." He shook his head in apology. "I just... I do not know what my people would do."

"Your people will not come for you," she said firmly. "By now they surely have given you up for dead and the snows will have hidden all sign of you."

He squeezed her hand, quietly stating his desperate hope, "But they may come for me."

"No," she declared defiantly. "They will not come!"

Releasing his hand, she walked over and donned her cloak. "I am going outside for more firewood. Put away the contents of the pack Belegon left for us and then we will begin your lessons."

Her tone left no question that the conversation was over. Gingerly, he made his way over to the pack. What options did he really have? If he left, where would he go? Could he even survive?

A resigned sigh pressed heavily upon his shoulders. For now, he would do as she had suggested, but if his people came for him, he knew he would leave.

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The days mulled on with more snow. Laurehér found being trapped in the little house stifling. He knew that it was unnatural for one of his kind to be so confined, but there was little he could do to remedy the situation. Spending as much time outside as possible, he managed to keep his spirit from railing against the walls of the cabin. He tended the traps with Faroniel, assisting with the skinning and tanning of the hides – something he seemed to have some knowledge of, in spite of his lack of other memories. Chopping firewood for her also helped to relieve some of his tension. But all the while he watched, silently mourning in growing despair. Would no one ever come for him?

Whenever he found himself confined indoors, he contented himself with bringing the beauty of life outside into the cabin by carving intricate leaf and animal pictures into the wood of the furniture, windows, and door. While he worked, a delighted Faroniel, always sang to him in melodies which seemed oddly mournful to his ears – even when the words were happy. Other times she told him stories of strange folk in places whose names had no meaning for him.

The lessons in Sindarin progressed well. Faroniel seemed delighted to discover that Laurehér learned quickly, and before long he could converse with ease.

Belegon visited many more times, bringing supplies and taking prepared hides for trade in the village. He also brought news that Laurehér was unwelcome there even if he could speak Sindarin. Laurehér tried a few times to engage Belegon in conversation, but Belegon always brushed him aside.

In spite of all of this, Laurehér's unrest grew. Faroniel seemed to understand his need to be outside and never questioned him when he remained in the blistering cold well past sundown, staring at the moon and the shimmering stars until the hour grew late. She always welcomed him back inside with a warm embrace, a blanket, and a hot cup of tea or cider. He truly did not understand why she tolerated his presence when he wearied of the cloistered monotony of this life.

As he lay awake in bed one night, he realized beyond all doubt that his people would have sought for him. He knew they needed him. Though still unsure as to why, he knew he was of such importance that many would have sought for him, even _died_ for him. And still there had been no sign of anyone. Perhaps some tragedy had befallen them preventing them from reaching him?

Then his heart lurched. Had Faroniel lied to him about Elves not seeking him out? It sickened him to think she might have hidden such information from him. She was so good and so selfless, showing him nothing but kindness with food, companionship, clothing, and shelter. She had saved his life! But she was also so very lonely.

He growled quietly, wiping his hands over his eyes and clenching his hair while kicking the mattress in frustration. Could she really have betrayed him so?

Faroniel stirred in her sleep, startling him. Laurehér immediately stilled, waiting until he once again heard the gentle rhythm of her slow even breaths. The soothing repetition of that sound had been such a balm to his weary spirit when he first arrived, but now, now…

He had to know. He knew enough from their conversations in which direction he needed to travel to begin his search. Certainly he had done enough work to pay off his indebtedness to her. She surely would protest his going if he told her, but the need was too great. Tomorrow while she was in the village, he would prepare for the journey. Then he would leave her a note explaining himself and slip out after she fell asleep.

Even if all he discovered was that he was the last of his people, he had to know the truth. Then he could be at peace at last.

XXXXX

_Faroniel – hunter-maiden_

_Laurehér – golden lord_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He found moving through the forest surprisingly exhilarating. His feet left only light marks in the snow as he glided over it. At first he moved with great haste, desiring to put as much distance as possible between himself and the confines of the mortal settlement. Effortlessly he ran for two days straight, stopping only to eat and see to his personal needs. When he finally slowed, the sights and sounds of the forest in winter soothed his restlessness spirit. It truly was beautiful - even if it was not home.

For many more days he wandered seeking signs of anything which might bring him hope or at least indicate the he was not the only one in the forest. He snared rabbits for food when his supplies ran low and speared some fish in a large racing stream. Occasionally he found signs of wolves stalking him and dealt with them decisively, stripping them of their pelts as his prize.

Just past dawn one morning, he found evidence of a large group having moved through the wood. He followed the trail of broken tree limbs and torn bushes until he came to a clearing. The bodies of orcs lay scattered all about as if a battle had been fought there. The snow hid much, but some trees till bore red and black blood stains. The orcs obviously had not simply fought each other.

Little was left to scavenge from the rotting orc bodies and nothing remained of those they fought. No turned earth, nor piles of stones stood nearby to indicate graves of the fallen. Given the number of dead orcs and the amount of red blood even after all of this time, some of their opponents had to have fallen. The thought of what may have happened to any non-orc bodies turned his stomach for Faroniel had told him of the cruel fates of those slain by orcs.

After a thorough investigation of the area, he understood from which direction each party came to the battle and in which direction the orcs left afterward, dragging many large somethings with them. He fell to his knees reeling when he realized what the orcs must have dragged, for dried red blood marred trees and rocks all along the orc trail. The orcs took many victims judging from what he could discern from the long cold trail. The thought that this winter the evil creatures would not go hungry made his stomach churn even more.

When he finally felt able to move again, he stood and looked about the fringes of the wide area where the battle had raged, looking for any signs that perhaps someone had escaped. It took him more than an hour, but he finally found evidence of a few non-orcs having moved through some trees in the general direction from which the non-orcs had come. Whoever they were, they moved with stealth in spite of their obvious injuries.

The fading light of early evening did little to obscure his vision as he continued to pick his way through the underbrush, following the trail. As the sun rose the next morning, he found what he had sought: the bodies of thirteen elves lay huddled in cloaks. Some slumped against trees while others were curled in a fetal position as if they had died in great pain. Near the remnants of a long dead fire, he found a lone survivor propped in a sitting position against a tree.

Relieved to see another of his kind and alive at that, he ran to the ellon. Grave wounds marred the ellon's body in spite of crude bandages and dried-out herb packs pressed to the infected injuries. Tearing strips from the cloaks of the dead, he restarted the fire and set about trying to help the survivor. When he moved the ellon to lie down, the elf whimpered in pain. His eye lids fluttered open revealing grey eyes with a fading light barely sparking in them.

Laurehér gave the ellon some water to drink, dampening the parch lips.

Gasping, the ellon whispered, "You live! I...we tried to find you…one hundred of us. Found...your helm…gloves and dead orcs. We...we...came to rescue you. We...orcs ambushed us..." The ellon coughed wetly, blood spattering from his mouth.

Laurehér clasped the ellon close, the elf's eyes showing his gratitude as he struggled to continue, "We are dead...all of us dead... I am the last. There are no more to come to our rescue. Our army is gone. None are left who came from Valinor." Coughing more blood on Laurehér's tunic and cloak, he choked. "Arafinwë, my dear friend...my...my brother-in-arms... You must live…you…you must. My sons are gone...my atar died, leaving me lord of the House of Oaks. I have none to be lord in my place. Let not your atar's line end as well! You are all that is left. Morgoth will win if your line ends." Tears slipped from the ellon's eyes as he wheezed through the blood on his lips. "I am all alone, b-bereft of all I loved as are you. Bereft and alone... Hide! Do not let the orcs catch you! I...I... Námo calls..."

A name unbidden came to Laurehér's lips. "Sartandil!" he cried, clutching the elf closer to his breast. "NO! SARTANDIL! NO!"

But even as he called, Laurehér knew it was too late.

For hours he wept, sobbing and aching, tears chilling his face as he huddled there over the cooling body of a once dear friend whom he remembered only in name.

At last he calmed and the late afternoon sun reminded him that he would be spending another night alone in the cold. Quietly, he set about trying to find some way to honor the bodies of his friend and the other fallen about him. All the while, he considered what he had learned.

If his friend had spoken truly, then his name was Arafinwë and he was more alone now than ever before. Faroniel had said that some elves still lived scattered about Beleriand, but to hear he may be the last of the elves of Valinor and no more would come! What did Sartandil mean by that?

Had the battle he found been the last stand of the army of Valinor? Somehow he could not believe that. Not from what he had learned from Faroniel about the war. Men should have been here as well and there had been none. What if Men were all that remained to carry on the fight?

No, not all, for he was still here as well and he would fight again if he had to. But where was the fight? And what of his friend's words about not letting his own line die out? At least that had confirmed for him what he had long feared in his heart – he was the only one left of his kin. He really was alone.

Something else his friend had said troubled him greatly. Why would Morgoth win if his line were to die out? Who was he that he mattered so much that so many came looking for him? In his heart, he knew it was right that they should look for him, but why? And why would Morgoth care if he lived or died? Perhaps his friend was merely trying to encourage him to stand against the despair he knew would assail a lone survivor? He did not know. What he did know now at least was that his name was Arafinwë and he was alone.

A glint of sunlight caught on the gold ring on his right hand as he worked. He also knew now that he was the last of his kin. He had no one to return to either, just like Sartandil. Had he kept the ring as a reminder then of what he once had had and what was now lost to him? Tears stung his eyes once again, blinding him as he wept for the past that he now was to bury with the bodies of these slain who seemed to be the last to remember who he was.

Some time later, his grim task complete, he picked up a helmet and gloves he had found near his friend which seemed to match the armor he wore now. He guessed these must have been his, so he donned them and walked away. Too sick of heart to eat and unable to bear to be in this place of sorrow any longer, he kept moving, uncaring of the direction so long as it was away from the orcs and the dead warriors. Why had so many been willing to endure the cold and the danger to try to find him? Now he was responsible for their deaths. From what Sartandil said, one hundred warriors from Valinor had died, and invariably it was his fault. Where should he have been that he was not so they had to go looking for him? Could he find that place again or should he even bother trying? He deserved whatever punishment awaited him if he ever returned to that place, but then again… Who would be there to mete out his punishment if everyone from the army of Valinor were gone? Perhaps the greater punishment would be to never return to Valinor. Was there any forgiveness to be found there for the crime he committed in being the subject of their hunt, the cause of their deaths?

But then again, Sartandil said they were to rescue him, not hunt him down. Who was Arafinwë that warriors would be willing to die trying to rescue him? He was not certain he wanted to know any longer. Whoever Arafinwë was, Laurehér knew one thing for certain, he did not deserve to live after one hundred ellyn met their deaths because of him.

XXXXX

When the first light of the cold cloudy dawn found him, he recognized some of the features of the land. Without realizing it, he had stumbled upon the way he had come. Well, he decided, it was as good as any other choice for now and more likely to keep him alive for a while longer. He would return to Faroniel and decide his future from there. There were tasks enough to occupy his hands and a kind spirit to keep him company. Besides, recruiters had come to her settlement before to gather men for the war. If they returned again, he would go with them and fight again. Until then, he would have a home, unless Faroniel did not welcome his return. She seemed so lonely though and had genuinely wanted him there, enjoying his presence and his help. She most likely would welcome his return. He hoped so at least. And that was all he could do right now: hope.

XXXXX

It took him longer to return than he had anticipated. Travel was slower with his grief still a constant companion, and he was not entirely certain of the way back. It was snowing again when he found one of her traps near midday on his fourth day of journeying. As a gesture of kindness and apology, he took the catch with him and reset the trap. Now that he knew where he was, it was easier going so he decided to check the remaining traps and bring the spoils to her. This delayed his return, but by the time he saw her cabin in the distance, his arms were full and he knew she would be pleased with that if nothing else.

Working quickly despite the cold, he lit a lantern hanging in the barn, removed his helmet and gloves, and prepared the catch as he had before under her direction so that all would be in readiness for her in the morning. The woodpile was getting low and he would need to chop some more wood in the morning, but he would gather what he thought would be enough for the night when he went to greet her. The work here was not difficult but it would take time and it would keep him busy and that was all that he wanted right now – something to keep him busy while he waited for…He was not certain what he was waiting for really, but he needed something to do and a place to call home for now.

Her horse whinnied, but as he walked over to rub it, an arrow flew past his head and thudded into the wall behind him. Immediately he drew his sword and moved into the shadows away from the horse.

"That arrow was a warning." Faroniel shouted angrily. "The next one will not miss. Now tell me who you are and why you are here."

Keeping his sword raised for he was no longer so certain that she would be glad to see him again, he called, "Faroniel, it is I, Laurehér. Please do not shoot me."

"Why should I not?" She called back, hurt obvious in her voice. "You did not even say goodbye to me, you coward. Why have you come back now?"

He closed his eyes a moment, shaking his head. He probably did deserve her anger. Sighing he opened eyes, but remained still, fearing she might shoot him if he moved suddenly. "I did not know what to say to you and I feared you would not let me go or that you would try to go with me. I needed to go alone on my search."

"You left me alone even after all I did to help you," she spat. "Was it worth it going away? Did you find what you were looking for? And why did you even bother coming back?"

"I did leave you alone and I am sorry for that, but it was necessary. You were wrong about my people for they did come looking for me."

"So why have you come back? Did they not want you anymore? Did you leave them without saying goodbye, too?"

He hesitated, for the grief suddenly welled back up in his heart again. "Oh, they wanted me all right and…one hundred had come in search of me, but I found them too late. They had been ambushed by orcs and…" but his voice broke as he spoke, "the…the last of them died in my arms. His name was Sartandil, Lord of the House of Oaks. I believe he and I were dear friends for so he said to me though I still have no memory of him from before other than his name. I made my farewell by burying him and the other twelve warriors who the orcs did not drag away after the battle. I saw evidence of dozens of wounded or dead warriors having been dragged away by the orcs."

Faroniel lowered her bow and walked over to him, her face full of sorrow and compassion. "Laurehér, I…"

He lowered his sword, suddenly feeling very tired and worn. "Sartandil told me that I am the last of my house as he was the last of his. He said that the army of Valinor is no more and told me to hide and that I needed to survive or Morgoth would truly win. I really am alone now, Faroniel. There is no one left to come for me and I have nowhere else to go. I truly am alone."

Setting her bow and the loose arrow on the ground she straightened and placed a tentative hand on his chest. "There is blood on your clothing. Is it Sartandil's?"

Nodding grimly and guiltily, Laurehér dropped his sword. Gently she took him into her embrace and he sobbed into her unbound hair.

"Laurehér," she whispered in his ear. "I am so very sorry for your loss. I…I did not realize…I feel so terrible for what I said. I am so sorry. So very sorry for you."

Holding him tightly, she patted and rubbed his back, letting him mourn until he could get his emotions under control enough to move again. When he at last stepped away from her embrace, she retrieved his sword and her bow and arrow. Once he sheathed his sword, she took him by the hand and led him back to the house. Quietly she tended to him, preparing him food while he bathed and changed clothes. It was quite late by the time he crawled into bed beside her. As he lay back and made himself comfortable, she turned on her side and looked at him.

"If you do not mind my asking, what else did your friend tell you before he died?"

Laurehér sighed. "He told me that his atar and his sons are dead, I guess in previous battles, and he also called me by my real name."

"I am sorry," She whispered, then paused, reaching over and brushing his cheek with her fingertips. "What is your real name then so that I may properly address you?" she finally asked.

He blinked back tears again for his heart still ached fiercely. "I…I do not wish to use that name again or even hear it spoken. I think it must have been important, but it cost too many ellyn their lives. Too many…I am not worth that sacrifice. I…I wish I had not gone searching and I wish I did not know what befell my people. It hurts too much to even think about. Now I wish I could forget it all again. I only wish to be Laurehér so that no one else will die because of me."

Sitting up a bit, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Very well, then Laurehér you shall be." Tentatively, she reached out and gathered him into her arms, smiling a little sadly as he rested his head on her shoulder. "And you are not alone in this world, much as you may feel that you are."

"Thank you," he whispered. Dreading the dreams of memories that were sure to come, he reluctantly closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around her gratefully. At least he need not face it all alone now.

XXXXX


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The quiet rhythm of activity living with Faroniel proved much easier to bear now that Laurehér knew he needed to stay and had nowhere else to go and no one else expecting him. The walls of the small house no longer stifled him and the labor of maintaining the house and barn and the trapping of animals kept his hands working and his arms strong. Her brother-in-law was most displeased to discover his return, but Laurehér found he did not mind so much for he learned things from listening to the man rant about him to Faroniel during each visit. For her part, Faroniel remained patient with Laurehér and his new questions.

"What did Belegon do before the war?" Laurehér asked after one of Belegon's more discourteous visits.

"He was a farmer as he is now. He lost his farm though the last time our folk had to flee our village and start over again in this new settlement, as did we all. It was very difficult. He has established new fields here and the seeds he brought with him enabled other farmers to re-establish themselves as well. Many folk are indebted to him for his generosity, which is why he holds so much sway in the village."

"I know you are a trapper and you trade in furs and useful bits of animal bones and meat. What other things do people trade in the village? What other work do people do there?"

She sighed as she went about preparing a meal for them. "Folk will trade anything and everything to get cloth and food and tools and whatever else they need. As for what work they do…some cook or bake, some make ale or cider, some weave fabric, some hunt, some build things with wood or stone, some make tools out of metal or wood. I imagine it is like an Elf village would be in that regard. We used to have someone who made jewelry, but he and his family died of the same sickness that took my children."

Laurehér walked over and put his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, knowing that when she spoke of her children or was reminded of them, she often grew sad and quiet for at time. "I have no memory of any Elf villages. Perhaps if I could see your village it would help me to remember."

Faroniel looked at him curiously even though sadness shone in her eyes. "Do you know what your work might have been or what skills you might have which you used before the war? You are very good at wood carving. Is that a common craft among the Vanyar? I know that the Noldor were good at smithying and the Teleri were sailors and fisher folk."

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I honestly do not know what skills were common among the Vanyar." He furrowed his brow quizzically. "I hope I was not a sailor by trade. That would be inconvenient here."

She shook her head at him, smiling in amusement. "The Vanyar did not live by the sea from the tales I have heard. I do not think you are in any danger of having been a sailor. It would have been inconvenient there, too."

He grinned at her as she swatted him with her free hand and gestured to the potatoes in the bowl across the table. He handed her two and watched as she deftly peeled them.

Tentatively he ventured, "I was rather hoping that by seeing the village I might remember something of what I once was. I would like to be able to contribute more than I already do or perhaps find other tasks with which to occupy my hands. Perhaps if I could see some of the folk at work, I might remember something of what I used to do before the war."

She paused in her work and regarded him gravely. "You do recall that Belegon has said that you are not welcome in the village, do you not?"

"I do remember, but I would like to go anyway."

"Very well," she said at last. "Perhaps if we wrap you against the cold like a mortal and you remain hooded, it will be all right."

Smiling, he replied, "Thank you."

"Do not thank me until we return home tomorrow, Laurehér. You may well regret going."

XXXXX

That night the wind shook the walls as they slept, howling so fiercely, that it entered his dreams.

_Looking up, he caught a rope which had come loose and tied it securely. _

"_Arafinwë, I told you to check those knots earlier," a silver-haired ellon chided. "If you would style yourself a brother of mine, you had better pay more attention to these details."_

"_Yes, I know," Arafinwë cried in exasperation, wiping sweat and sea salt from his brow. "I checked all of the others and could not get to this one before the wind picked up again."_

_The ellon shook his head, smiling grimly. "Come help me with these nets then." He paused a moment then added. "I am impressed with the haul, today. You did well mending the nets as you were taught." _

"_Thank you, Olwion," Arafinwë said, grinning in pride and relief at finally getting something right. Moving carefully, he made his way over to the nets so his bare feet did not slip on the wet deck. _

_Two other ellyn joined them, their shirtless forms glowing palely in the dim light of a starry night and a horizon lit by something other than a sun and a moon. As they all worked, they sang songs of fishing and hauling, the steady rhythms of the tunes setting the tempo for their work._

"_When we return to __Alqualondë__, I will tell atar how you did today. I think he will be most pleased. The folk back home probably would not be terribly impressed with you, but atar will be proud and that is what matters most right now," Olwion said._

_Arafinwë laughed. "I lost my shirt over the side when that big wave hit, and I now stink of sweat and fish. I very much doubt that anyone would be terribly impressed with me at this moment."_

"_Ohhh, I can think of someone who would be pleased to see you like this, but even she would probably prefer to have you bathed and properly dressed before you saw her again, be she a sea maiden or no."_

_The all laughed at that and continued their work._

Laurehér's eyes snapped open and he immediately sat bolt upright. He swore so loudly Faroniel turned in her sleep. "Dear Eru. I AM a sailor!" he exclaimed in horror.

He reached over and poured himself a cup of water from the other on the table beside the bed, still muttering curses under his breath. After downing two cups which failed to taste salty though he could still remember the taste of the ocean from his dream, he laid back down. He put his hands over his face as panic continued to well inside of him.

"I am a Vanya!" He whispered aloud to himself. "I am not a Teler. I cannot be a sailor. Yet…my brother was a sailor, and I know how to sail?" He cursed some more. "I am going to be useless here, completely and utterly useless…"

Perhaps it was just a dream? But then, he knew he could tie knots and could feel the rope in his hands and hear the billowing sails and taste the sea and feel the sway of the ship. No…these were memories and he really did know how to sail. Perhaps he was a Vanya who spent some time with the Teleri for some reason and learned their craft? After all, he was…How old was he? Perhaps three thousand years old? Was that right? He was not certain and his head was starting to ache in the place where he had been hit. Vaguely he wondered if that blow had caused far more damage than he previously believed.

Faroniel rolled over and placed her hand on his chest. "Laurehér, you probably had a nightmare. Go back to sleep or I will not take you to the village tomorrow."

He glared at her in irritation, then grudgingly settled himself once again. If he knew how to sail, then perhaps he knew other things as well. He could only hope that he had skills which were useful so far inland. The sea shanties from the dream resounded in his head as he fell asleep again, muttering them to himself.

XXXXX

The village was not that far away by horse and they rode together at a leisurely pace. The day was clear but exceedingly cold and snow still lay about.

"The winters last longer than they used to since the war started," Faroniel commented as she guided the horse down the heavily wooded path to the village. "We blame Morgoth for it."

Laurehér felt her shiver a bit and put his arms more securely around here, leaning closer to her back to share his warmth. "From what you have told me of Morgoth, I would believe that he would do such a thing to further punish those who oppose him."

"Well the cold is a good excuse for you to keep your hood pulled low over your bright elf eyes and you may want to hunch a bit as well so that you actually look cold like a mortal would." She gestured to the bushes beside them. "Look how the leaves on the bushes are curled up tight against the weather. It is even colder today than it was yesterday."

He gave a small laugh, "You will have to remind me. I find the cool air refreshing, and may well forget for this cloak you made for me is almost too warm."

"I could do with being too warm right now," Faroniel sighed pulling her cloak a little closer around her. "But I think spring will be late again, so I may not be warm again for many weeks yet."

When they reached the outskirts of the village, they dismounted and she led the horse with Laurehér walking beside her. The houses and other buildings were made of wood with thatched roofs, each sporting stone chimneys billowing smoke. As they passed each building, she spoke in a soft voice, telling him the names of the folk who dwelt there and the work they did. He stared in fascination at the low structures shut up tight against the weather. Sounds of activity came from most of the structures, voices talking or singing, children chattering and crying. Every so often he would stop and listen in fascination, trying to discern what was being said or sung.

"Laurehér, we need to keep moving. Stopping so much is drawing attention to us and I wish for us to be ignored," Faroniel admonished.

"I am sorry," he answered quietly, pulling his hood a bit lower. "I just…it has been so long since I last heard the voices of children. It is beautiful to me – even their fussing. I find that I have missed those sounds, I think, for a long time."

"We will stop at the candlemaker's house just ahead there beside the smith's forge," she pointed to the building. "We need more candles."

He nodded in reply, then immediately stopped in front of the next house, breathing deeply. The smells from the place were wonderful and he longed to go inside.

Faroniel laughed. "Be they Elf or Mortal, all males think with their stomachs."

He gazed at her inquiringly, intentionally looking more affronted than he actually felt.

She glared at him though her eyes betrayed her amusement. "If you behave yourself, I will get you a treat from the baker's, but only if you behave."

"Fair enough," he replied with a grin.

Handing him the horse's reins, she instructed him to remain outside while she went in and purchased the candles. The horse seemed a little agitated by the pounding at the smith's, but Laurehér spoke a few soothing words to it and it calmed immediately. He watched in fascination as the smith worked in the smokey open forge, squeezing the bellows to raise the flame and then alternately heating and hammering away at the horseshoe he was making. The smith was a grizzled old man with a few streaks of black darkening his grey hair and beard. He was stooped from his many years of labor, but his arms and calloused hands were large and muscular, moving with easy efficiency. Every blow was well-placed and he eyed the piece critically as he worked.

Another man soon came forward, leading a horse. The smith nodded to the man who waved back. The horse whinnied, shying away from the noise of the hammer. A few moments later, the smith came over with the shoe and the man tried to calm the beast. Another man came over to help and together they struggled to settle it enough so the smith could remove the old shoe and put on the new. However, the more they tried to contain the animal, the more it bucked, eventually kicking the helper and the smith.

Laurehér told his horse to stay put, and it agreed to do so as he dropped the reins and strode over to help. He spoke soothingly to the agitated horse in Quenya, calming it. Then he surprised himself by casting aside his cloak, putting on a spare leather apron and gloves, and picking up where the smith had left off. With a practiced skill he proceeded to remove the old shoe, complete the making of the new one, and put it on. The horse remained calm and docile the whole time. It all came so easily to him as if he had been working at a forge and shoeing horses for a long time. The weight of the hammer, the clang of metal on metal, and the hiss of hot iron cooling in the water all spoke to him, and he found to his great delight that he knew their song.

When he finished, he looked up and noticed Faroniel staring at him in surprise, holding the reins of her horse. The smith sat on the ground holding his side and the other man supported him, as he rubbed his own leg where the horse had kicked him. They both stared at him as well.

Laurehér grinned at Faroniel as he said in Sindarin, "I used to work at a forge back home. The smith needed help, so I did what I could for him."

Faroniel shook her head in surprised wonder as the smith commented, "You're that Elf from over the sea that Belegon talked about, aren't you?"

Tentatively, Laurehér nodded, carefully setting aside the last of the tools, suddenly afraid that he had done too much in helping. Were the folk of the town going to chase him away? It seemed that he had done no harm in offering his help. Yet, he had no idea how mortals would react to what he had done. It probably was very presumptuous of him to help out as he had.

The smith smiled, showing yellowed, slightly crooked teeth. "Your voice gives you away as does your way with beasts. My name is Angadan. My boys are away fighting Morgoth like you should be. Why aren't you?"

Laurehér bowed his head in sorrow and shame. From all that Faroniel had said, the Elves had caused this fight with Morgoth and should be the ones fighting him. He should be fighting him, but he no longer knew how, last of the Elves of Valinor as he was. Raising his head, but not quite meeting the man's eyes, he carefully replied, "I was away fighting him and I was badly injured. Faroniel found me and healed me. I tried to find the Host from Valinor, but they are gone. I…I have nowhere else to go, so I am here now."

The smith grimaced, gasping as he clutched his side. "You do nice work, Elf. You have an easy skill with the hammer. I have bruised my ribs, if not broken some of them. This has happened before, and I know I will have trouble working for a few weeks. I could use some help at the forge until I get better. Since the Elves took my sons from me, it only makes sense that an Elf should be provided to help me out. You interested in working at my forge, under my supervision of course, until I am well again?"

Taken aback at the offer, Laurehér looked over at Faroniel, silently seeking her permission. It was exhilarating working with metal and he truly hoped she would give her approval. She seemed to understand for she sighed and nodded her head.

Laurehér flashed her a small smile in return, then leaned over, extending his hand to the smith to help him stand. "I would be honored," he replied.

xxxxx

While a healer tended the old smith, Laurehér worked at the forge completing the remaining tasks for the day. With newly wrapped broken ribs, Angadan the smith sat stiffly in a nearby chair and gave his approval to each piece Laurehér completed.

"Laurehér, you were well-trained. The master you apprenticed to must have been excellent and he must have been very proud of you. Your village must have been very upset to lose one so skilled as you to the war," said Angadan.

Feeling quite pleased with the compliments, Laurehér wiped sweat and ash from his brow with a rag as he replied, "Thank you. In truth, I remember little to nothing of my life in Valinor. My hands recall their skills, but my head recalls little else. I do not think I was the only smith, but I do not know how many others we had nor if they all went to the war."

"It must have been a bad head injury you received," Angadan observed.

Putting away tools as the smith pointed to their proper places, Laurehér answered, "My shoulder, arm, and leg were injured and an orc was trying to behead me, but he took an arrow in the throat and the flat of his blade hit my skull instead."

The smith grimaced as did the healer who had lingered nearby listening. "You could have died from that injury," the healer commented. "That is why we wear helmets into battle, Friend."

"I know. I am fortunate to yet live. My helmet was found nearby, I think. I have no idea why I was not wearing it at the time. I was not wearing my gloves either and I think they were found nearby as well."

"It is said that Elves can endure and survive wounds that mortals cannot. It sounds as if that legend is true," the healer said.

"I only know about Mortals what I recently have seen," Laurehér gestured to the smith's bandaged chest, "And about Elves what I have experienced for myself. But I do know that I have seen Elves die of wounds. We can be killed. One of the few memories I do have is of watching a dear friend die of his wounds after battle." He closed his eyes against the sudden surge of emotion and turned away, recalling vividly his last conversation with Lord Sartandil and the subsequent burial of his only known elven friend and the bodies of those who had lain dead nearby.

Someone patted and rubbed his back reassuringly and he was surprised to hear Faroniel speak from behind him for he never sensed her approach. "War is hard on everyone be they Elf or Man. And I have found that the wounds we cannot see are the ones that are the slowest to heal. They beat down Elves and Men just the same. Laurehér's body has recovered, but his mind and heart have not. Sometimes I wonder if they ever will."

Laurehér opened his eyes and turned to look at her, searching her face for an answer as to why she thought him so…so _damaged_ when she had never before voiced such things to him. All he saw was obvious intense pity, and was that a hint of warning in her eyes? He opened his mouth to ask, but she gave the slightest shake of her head and put her hand on the side of his face as if examining him.

"I knew that Men returned from battle changed. I have seen it myself and have no doubt my sons will be different when they return to me. And some are…_more changed_ than others." Angadan said gesturing to his own head. "I did not know it happened to Elves a well. I guess it makes sense that it would though."

"They live forever," Faroniel explained, "and I have heard that they are half made of memory. You take that away and-"

"You get half an Elf," the smith said with a grim chuckle.

"Exactly," Faroniel agreed sadly, nodding toward Laurehér sympathetically. "He can still do things with his hands and he is very smart and very likeable, but…" She shook her head and sighed.

"I understand," said the healer.

"As do I," said the smith as he glanced over at Laurehér with new understanding in his eyes. "He is welcome here at my forge, Faroniel, and I do expect him here two hours after sunrise every day to help if he is up to it. I will pay him for his services. He has strong hands and does excellent work."

Faroniel placed her hand on Laurehér's arm, drawing his attention back to her. "Are you all right with this agreement? Do you think you can handle this amount of work each day?"

"Yes," Laurehér replied simply, searching her eyes again for an explanation for why she was behaving this way and saying such things about him. He held back his rising anger and his questions though.

"Do you want me to examine him and see if there is anything I can suggest which may help him?" the healer asked gesturing to Laurehér.

"No," Faroniel replied in sad resignation. "He made such excellent progress at first in the healing of his body, but it has been months now and his mind…I do not think that even Elven healers from Valinor could heal him further. Some things simply never get any better – even in Elves."

The healer nodded in understanding. "I watched him work and have spoken with him while he was here and I listened to others interacting with him. In truth, I would not know what else to do besides what you seem to have already done, for he is amiable and functioned well today. If you notice any fainting spells or dizziness or new bouts of forgetfulness, please send for me."

"I will do that. Thank you," Faroniel inclined her head, her voice filled with gratitude.

The smith shook his head and grimaced, "And to think Belegon thought the Elf would stir up trouble and inspire more of our young men to go to the war. If anything, this one is a testament to the benefits of staying home." He chuckled grimly.

"Laurehér, my friend, I will see you tomorrow morning. Have a good rest tonight. You have earned it. Good evening, Faroniel. Take good care of my helper."

"Thank you, Angadan. And a good evening to you, and to you, Master Healer," she replied.

"And to you," the healer said.

Taking Laurehér's right hand in hers, she gave a tug and they turned and walked away.

"Why?" Laurehér whispered in bitter confusion. He felt humiliated by the whole conversation and betrayed. All he did was offer his help and she repaid him by treating him like this?

"I will explain at home and not before then," she responded in an equally low whisper.

As they passed the baker's house, she stopped and told him to wait outside with the horse. A few moments later she returned and placed a warm apple tart in his hand. Taking the reins in her left hand, she said, "You earned that, now eat and be silent, and I will explain when we get home."

At the edge of the village, they mounted the horse and rode the rest of the way in silence.

XXXXX

As the door closed behind him, Faroniel stoked the fire, bringing some light to the dim cabin. Laurehér removed his cloak and hung it on the nail by the door, then turned to her. Crossing his arms, he held his head high and glared at her with a look that he knew had made others quell in fear in the past.

"Explain," he demanded.

She finished with the fire, then rose and seemed taken aback by his expression, almost afraid, but then she visibly steeled herself and replied, "It is a good thing that you did not look like that when you were in the village. They would have killed you on the spot."

"Looked like what?" he spat. "According to you I am only half of an Elf."

"You literally are glowing, with fury, I suspect. I had heard tales of the Eldar from across the sea having a great light about them, especially in battle. I never understood that until now. Do you plan on fighting me, a lone defenseless woman?"

"Your words are sharp and poisoned and they cut deeper than any blade, _defenseless woman_."

Faroniel crossed her arms, matching him with a glare of her own, her voice stern. "My words were spoken to cut through the beliefs that those men held about you. Belegon told all of the villagers about you months ago, and they all believed that you were there to steal their sons away like the recruiters did before. Belegon and many others have sons approaching the age where they could go fight. If you went into the village as you are now, all bright and powerful and majestic and beautiful, boys would be clamoring to follow wherever you led and their kin would murder you to prevent that."

"But you lied about me! You made me sound weak and broken and…and as if my mind and spirit are ruined! I can assure you they are not!"

She held out her hands in a placating gesture, but he ignored it. "Laurehér, you are not weak, but you are broken, whether you admit it or not. You have few memories of your past and some that you do have, you hide from. You will not even accept your real name any longer. If the people of the village believe that you are a skilled, intelligent, kind ellon who poses no threat to anyone, then you will not only be allowed to live, but you will be able to make a place for yourself here and make friends. My words were spoken to protect you from the others and to protect you from yourself."

He uncrossed his arms and clenched his fists, shaking them in frustration as more memories returned while he spoke. "Faroniel, one hundred ellyn, one hundred _warriors_ died because of me and my name. And those are just the ones that I know about. I…my heart tells me that more would have come looking for me and perhaps more did. I…I…" He sighed and pounded his left fist against the doorframe hard enough to make the whole wall shake as he struggled to find the words and make sense of what he was remembering.

"I led thousands into battle. _Thousands_! With that many elven warriors at my command, what would I care for a few meager mortal boys barely come to manhood?"

"You are a lord then?" she asked in a gentler voice.

"Yes."

"To have had thousands at your command…it seems you must have been one of the Captains of the West," she ventured.

"Yes, I believe I was."

She swore quietly and turned, bending over to put more wood on the fire. He watched the firelight play across her face as she swore again then rose and came over to him. Tentatively, she placed her hand on his chest, smoothing it across to his shoulder and then to rest on and grip his upper right arm. "You can never ever let my people know who and what you really are. You need to let them continue to think you were a villager like them, a lowly smith - albeit a highly skilled one - recruited to fight in a war far away. If they ever find out you were a lord and captain, they will kill you for that alone, even if you do not regain any further memories and pose no threat now."

He pushed her hand off of his arm. "You want me to live a lie? I thought you were a better person than that!" He turned away from her, breathing heavily as he reached to open the door, trying to figure out where he would go if he left right now.

She grabbed his arm and tugged hard to turn him to reluctantly face her again. "You are a smith and a gifted one, though I do not know why a great lord would need such skills. It is no lie to live as a smith for now. What is a lord without his people? What is a captain with no warriors at his command? Just another ellon. And that is what you are right now, just a simple ellon with no one to command. Iron bends to your will, but folk do not and that is the way it needs to be right now. There is nothing dishonest in you being Laurehér the Vanyarin smith from across the sea. No one need know you were a lord and captain of the Vanyarin army – even _you_ did not know it until now."

He took a step back, closed his eyes, and smacked the back of his head against the door a few times, welcoming the pain as an outlet for his frustration. Her words made sense and her reasoning was sound, much as he did not wish them to be. He banged his fists against the door as well. Lord Arafinwë of the Vanyar he was! But the warriors from his memories all had dark hair, dark or brown like the Noldor she had described to him. So why was a Vanyarin lord commanding Noldorin warriors? Would the Noldor not have had a lord of their own folk commanding their armies? Unless perhaps his own adar had been a Noldo.

Finrod from the stories Faroniel had told had golden hair and he was a Noldorin prince and later a king. Arafinwë was no prince, but it stood to reason that if that ellon could be of mixed blood and have golden hair then why could Arafinwë not, too? But who was his own adar? Who had sired Arafinwë?

He bowed his head in shame. He could not even remember a face, let alone a name for his own adar. What kind of son was he? Certainly he must have loved his adar. What son would not? What had Sartandil said to him again? Oh, yes. He was the last of his house just as Arafinwë was the last of his. So…his own adar was dead.

Laurehér shook his head, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the tears he felt welling up. His own adar was dead and he was such a terrible son that he could not even remember him nor how he died. If Sartandil had lost his adar in battle, then it stood to reason that he had lost his own that way as well. It must have been early in the war though for he could remember leading more than a few campaigns. Perhaps his adar had been among the first to die?

He searched his heart for any feelings regarding that and realized that indeed that had been the case. His adar had been among the first to lose his life in the war with Morgoth. What would his adar think of him now? Would he want him to persist as he was now or would he expect him to be out on the field of battle, fighting Morgoth with his last breath and strength? Would he be ashamed of him for living in a mortal village with no memory to guide him, existing and persisting but nothing more than that? To that he had no answer, and his heart revealed nothing more.

The gentle brush of fingers on his face broke him out of his reverie. He opened his eyes and looked into Faroniel's concerned ones.

"What are you remembering, Laurehér?" She asked, wiping tears off his face with her sleeve.

"My adar died in one of the first battles and I can remember neither his face nor his name." His voice broke as he spoke.

Gently she pulled his head to her shoulder and enveloped him in a warm embrace while he wept anew for the adar he had lost.

XXXXX

His dreams that night led him to a forge lit by fire and the light of the Two Trees.

_Telperion was waxing as he worked, heating, hissing, and hammering new shapes into the metal he held. The Master looked on, not offering any suggestions nor critiquing his technique. When at least he finished and lay the piece to cool, the Master offered him a cup of cold water._

_Arafinwë drank the whole cup in one go. Setting down the empty cup which was immediately refilled, he looked questioningly at his mentor. "You have been quiet. Did I pass the test? Are you pleased enough with my work that I may continue learning?"_

_"You are not your brother," the Master said._

_"Nor do I wish to be," he replied honestly, knowing exactly which brother the Master compared him to. "My brother has many fine qualities as a craftsman which I will never possess, but I have much in my heart which he will never know for his pride and his attitude forbid him from learning such things."_

_"What has your atar said, Child?"_

_"He wishes for all of us to learn the crafts of the Noldor," Arafinwë replied dutifully._

_"But is it your wish to learn these crafts? They require time and effort and many mistakes from which you will learn to make newer and better things over time."_

_"Master, I am aware of this. Why are you questioning me about this? My amillë may be a Vanya, but I am as skilled as any Noldo, and I have the drive and the desire to learn and better myself. Are my skills truly so poor and wanting at the forge?"_

_Arafinwë bowed his head in shame. Everyone seemed to compare him to his brothers in all things. He was not them. He had not their skills, but he had his own and no one ever seemed interested in seeing what he could do for himself – they only wanted to compare him to his brothers, especially the oldest one, and see where he fell short. And now his Master was doing the same thing. Just like his Atar did at every turn…_

_He felt gloved fingers lift his chin and he opened his eyes, flinching as he met the searingly bright gaze of the Vala before him. "Son, I do not compare you to your brothers, looking to see where you fall short as others apparently do. I just wish to confirm that you are here for the love of the craft and not for ambition to be just like them. For like it or not, you will never be like either of them, especially the eldest one."_

_"I love my brothers," Arafinwë replied honestly. "And, like them, I also enjoy working with my hands. I enjoy the effort and the crafting. I thrill at drawing forth that which is hidden within the material and which I can envision as possible within the materials with which I work."_

_"You do not perceive your work as bending materials to your will as your brothers see their work. I like that and I admire that in you. It is not a Noldorin trait, but more one of the Vanyar." The Master leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially though there was no one else to hear. "I will not tell your Noldorin atar if you do not tell him."_

_Grinning broadly, Lord Aulë straightened again and spoke more formally. "I will keep you as my apprentice, young Arafinwë. You are not like your brothers and that is a very good thing. You are striving to become as you should be and not as others think you should be. I am proud of you for that, and I would be delighted to help you achieve your potential."_

_Confidence and joy thrilled through him. Arafinwë could not help the smile that lit his whole being, fairly beaming as he replied, "I would honored to continue to serve and learn from you, my Lord."_

**XXXXX**

**_Olwion_**_ – "son of Olwë" the King of the Teleri. Olwion is Arafinwë's brother-in-law, but I don't know which of Olwë's sons he happens to be._

**_Angadan –_**_ Yes, the smith's name means "Iron Man", deal with it. LOL_

**_Sea maiden –_**_ The meaning of Eärwen, the name of Arafinwë's wife who is the daughter of Olwë._

_**Amillë** _– _(Quenya) mother_

_**Atar**_ – _(Quenya) father_

_**Note:**__ I suspect that Arafinwë, having married the daughter of the King of the Teleri, would have been obliged to learn how to sail and haul nets like any honest Teler._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The next day, Laurehér rode to the village with Faroniel, but she did not stay with him at the forge. Leaving him in the care of the smith, she departed to check the traps. It would be afternoon before she returned, but Laurehér did not mind. He had plenty of work to do for the smith and he was eager to do it. As he labored, memories of technique and training came to him, bringing him much joy.

The smith made himself comfortable in a chair and watched Laurehér work. He critiqued each piece created, always seeming to be pleased with the craftsmanship. At one point after lunch, Angadan stopped Laurehér. "Explain to me the technique you are using making this tool. I would not have thought to do what you just did."

Laurehér smiled, wiping sweat from his brow and paused in his work. He launched into an explanation of what his Master had taught him. After a few minutes of discussion, he pumped the bellows to bring the fire back to proper temperature so he could continue. As he set down the bellows, and turned to pick up the tongs holding the half-formed tool, someone grabbed his right hand as a fist connected with his face.

He cried out as he fell against the forge, but his assailant struck him again, knocking him to the ground before his clothes could catch fire.

"Belegon! What are you doing?" Angadan angrily demanded.

"Shut up and stay out of this, Angadan!" Belegon yelled. "This is between me and the Elf." He picked up Laurehér and smashed his fist into his stomach.

"Elf, I told you to stay away from the village. You are not wanted here!"

Laurehér gasped in reply, trying to speak despite the wind being knocked out of him, but the smith spoke up again.

"Let him go, Belegon! He is here helping me," Angadan shouted. "I got kicked shoeing a horse yesterday and he calmed the horse and finished the shoeing. He is working for me now for the next three months or until the healer says I am well enough to lift a hammer again."

"I will not have this pretty boy taking our sons away to the war. Too many of our men have been lost to it. Elves live forever, but our folk do not!" He grabbed Laurehér by his leather apron and pulled him up to rain punches down on his face and torso.

Blood streamed from his nose and his lips, but Laurehér did not fight back. After Faroniel's warning that a lord and captain of an army would be put to death for tempting men to fight, Laurehér felt it best to not resist at all and let them think he was weak. He hated it, but he wanted to live, to spite Belegon if nothing else at this point. Belegon grabbed him by the single braid which bound his hair and by his arm, dragging him up to hit him again. Laurehér clutched at his head, but Belegon abruptly released him when the smith, the baker, and the tanner, who had houses on either side of the forge, tackled Belegon, pinning him to the ground.

"Stop this madness now!" the tanner yelled. "The Elf is helping here! He was injured in the war and does not even remember who he is or where he is from. What fool would want to go to war if he is an example of what happens to a man as a result of it?"

Belegon fought against the three holding him down. "He will bring more Elves here. We should kill him now before he does!"

"If the Elves wanted him so badly, they would have already come back for him. He is damaged and they don't want him anymore, but we do," the baker said, driving his knee into Belegon's chest.

"He's a good worker and I want to keep him around," Angadan declared from his perch on top of Belegon's legs. "Besides he did not even try to defend himself against you. I'm not so sure he even knows how to anymore."

"The Elf's making a tool for me right now," the tanner declared, digging his knee deeper into the struggling Belegon's right arm. "If it is ruined because of you, then you will pay for him to make me a new one. Now apologize and let him get back to work. By delaying him you are delaying me in my work, you idiot!"

After a few tense moments, Belegon stopped resisting. Laurehér stayed on the ground where he was, too afraid to move, partly because it hurt so much and mostly because he was uncertain as to what to do next. When the three holding Belegon were convinced he was going to back off, they let him up.

He gave Laurehér a long calculating look, then spat on him and swore. "If you bring the war back to us again, Elf, you will taste my steel and there won't be anyone in the village who will defend you." Then he turned and stormed off, pushing his way through the crowd that had formed to watch the spectacle unfold. As the villagers parted way for him, some muttered in agreement though others expressed sympathy for Laurehér.

As soon as Belegon was gone, the three turned to Laurehér while the baker's wife ran off to fetch the healer.

"You all right?" the baker asked, wiping at the blood on Laurehér's face with a corner of his flour-covered apron.

"Anything broken other than your pride?" the tanner asked with a grin.

Laurehér spat out the blood in his mouth, trying to figure out just what parts were injured. He hurt everywhere. "I hurt," he managed. "I do not think anything is broken." He ran his hands along his chest and took as deep a breath as he could manage, then winced against the pain.

"You probably bruised your ribs, but that leather apron should have afforded you some protection against the blows," the smith said.

"You best steer clear of Belegon," the baker said. "He hates you and he will kill you if you cross him. He lost his brother to the recruiters as well as his brother-in-law – Faroniel's husband. We welcome you though, Elf, and hope you will stay."

"Thank you for the warning and for coming to my rescue," Laurehér gasped. "I am grateful."

"When the healer finishes with you, I'll help you get home," the tanner said, moving aside to let the healer through. "I'll send my son to find Faroniel and let her know what happened to you."

"Thank you," Laurehér said again as the healer knelt beside him and began inspecting his injuries.

Angadan called for the crowd to disperse and the baker left to go back to his kitchen, but he returned a few minutes later with a few apple tarts wrapped in a cloth. He handed them to the tanner with the instructions, "Keep one for yourself and one for the smith, but the rest are to go home with Laurehér. The Elf deserves something for his troubles."

"What, none for me?" the healer pouted.

"Come by my shop when you are finished and you can pick out something for yourself."

The healer grinned triumphantly. "Thanks!"

Briefly Laurehér wondered if perhaps Faroniel had been right about men and their stomachs, but the then the healer removed the leather apron and peeled back his sweaty shirt, causing him to cringe in agony, forgetting all else.

"Bruised, but not broken," the healer finally said after much probing. "I'll mix up something for the pain in a few minutes."

Laurehér just closed his eyes and tried to think about the tarts.

XXXXX

The tanner and the healer both accompanied him home with him riding in tandem with the tanner who kept him from falling off the horse. Between the effects of the injuries and the pain medicine, he was having great difficulty remaining upright by the time they got him to his house. Faroniel was not back yet, so the two undressed him and the healer bathed his injuries.

When they finally got him settled in bed, the tanner commented, "So you sleep with her then?"

Laurehér looked over at him thinking it an odd question. "There is only one bed. Where else would I sleep?"

"We had been wondering about that when we heard that she had taken you in," the tanner grinned slyly. "So are you as good with your hands in here as you are at the forge?"

Laurehér answered readily enough. "Well, I am good at carving wood and have added to the décor," he gestured to the now ornate door frame and the carvings adorning the furniture.

"I believe he was referring to using your hands in bed," the healer clarified with a smirk. "Those are nice carvings though."

"Thank you," Laurehér said. "But to what exactly is he referring by my using my hands in bed?"

Both men seemed a bit taken aback and the tanner started to make some motions with his hands, but Laurehér stared at them blankly.

"Ah, well, never mind," the tanner said waving dismissively, then added quietly out of the corner of his mouth, "He really is damaged, isn't he?"

"Could be an innocent," the healer ventured.

"He must be a thousand years old. He should know what I'm talking about," the tanner said. "And if he doesn't, it's about time someone told him."

"I am three thousand years old," Laurehér clarified, wondering why his age was relevant to this conversation.

"It could be the medicine I gave him making him not think very clearly," the healer offered.

"Could be," the tanner agreed. "But you have given me that stuff before when I got hurt and I was still quite capable of thinking about using my hands in bed and actually using them and other things as well, so I am not convinced."

"I gave him a lot more than I gave you, you lusty fool. It is no wonder you have six kids already," the healer said, swatting the tanner in the arm.

The tanner replied with a cheeky grin, then addressed Laurehér again. "Well, Elf, should you discover a new talent with your hands and get the lovely Faroniel pregnant, you had better marry her."

Laurehér was taken aback suddenly realizing what the two men had been talking about. Appalled, he responded, "For Elves, the act which makes a female pregnant also seals a marriage. I could not get any female pregnant without making her my wife in the process. Is it not the same way with mortals as well?"

The healer and the tanner looked at each other both suddenly seeming a bit uncomfortable as they regarded Laurehér again. "Ah, no, it is not the same way with mortals," the healer said.

Now Laurehér was very surprised and shocked as well, especially when he more fully realized what they had been implying about him. "You think Faroniel and I have been…No. Absolutely not. No."

"You have to admit that she is very beautiful and very lonely," the healer pointed out.

"Yes, she is both of those," Laurehér agreed. "But Elves do not…it is not…I…we do not take advantage of people like that. I must admit I am horrified to think that you thought I would do something like that. I am an honorable ellon!"

The tanner shook his head in disbelief as the door suddenly opened and Faroniel came rushing in, "And a damaged one. Obviously a damaged one," he said as he rose from his chair and greeted Faroniel as she ran to the bed.

"I trust my boy told you what happened to him. The healer tended him and we brought him home for you. There are some tarts from the baker over on the table. It is time I got back home now." Turning to Laurehér, he added with a knowing grin, "Feel better soon, my friend, and may your hands discover a new purpose in the days to come."

"Thank you," Laurehér said a bit uncertainly, feeling most uncomfortable with what the man was suggesting.

"He refers to the effects of the medicine," the healer said dismissively, nodding to the tanner. "Ignore him. We have been."

Faroniel looked at the tanner oddly, but she expressed her gratitude then seemed to dismiss him from her thought as he walked outside, closing the door behind him. Turning her full attention to Laurehér, she asked, "Are you badly hurt?" Without waiting for a response, she looked to the healer, "Will he be all right? Belegon can be ruthless when he is angry."

"He will be fine," the healer assured her. "No bones are broken and his kind heals quickly. I already see improvement in the hours I have been with him. He should stay home tomorrow, but perhaps in a day or two he will able to return to the forge. I have prepared another draught for him. Give it to him in an hour and then he should sleep comfortably through the night. I will return in the morning to check on him." He patted Laurehér on the arm, then turned to Faroniel.

"Your brother-in-law made some people very angry today with his attitude and his fighting. Laurehér did nothing wrong and did not even try to defend himself. He is a wise ellon in that regard. If he had fought back, Belegon may well have killed him."

Faroniel nodded as she bent and gently smoothed Laurehér's hair. "Thank you for all you have done for him and for bringing him here and for sending for me. I am most grateful." Leaning forward, she kissed Laurehér on a small unbruised spot on his forehead. "I am so sorry for what Belegon did to you. So very sorry."

Laurehér reached up and brushed his fingers along her face. "I am all right. You have nothing to apologize for. You have shown me nothing but kindness and tried to warn me about him. I did what I thought best when he attacked me and it seems to have been the right thing to do."

She kissed him again on the same spot then stood up. "Are you hungry?'

"A little bit," he replied.

"Best keep the meal light. Anything heavy might make him sick right now," the healer advised. "Do you want me to stay or do you think you can handle caring for him?"

"I will be all right taking care of him. If I need anything, I can be at your house in a few minutes. My horse is fast."

The healer smiled as he arose and gathered his supplies. "Very well then. Take good care of him and I will return in the morning. Laurehér, rest easy and stay in bed. Let her take care of you. You do not need to be up and about for any reason tonight. You need sleep."

"Thank you," Laurehér said, feeling very, very tired.

"Good evening to you both," the healer said as he walked out the door.

"Good evening," Faroniel called after him, already pulling out dishes and stoking the cooking fire.

Laurehér fell asleep almost immediately.

XXXXX

_He looked up from his desk as the door to his study burst open then immediately slammed shut. Without a word, his brother strode over to the side table and poured two very full glasses of wine. He drank most of one in one swallow, the refilled it and walked over to the desk._

"_Here, Arafinwë, you will need this," he handed over one of the glasses. "I know I certainly do." Careful not to spill, he collapsed into the chair in front of the desk. He drank most of his glass again, then got up and brought the whole decanter over and set it on the desk in front of him._

_Arafinwë reached out and poured half a glass more for his brother, then moved the decanter over to his side of the desk out of reach of his brother. "No more until you explain."_

"_I hate him. I swear, I hate him."_

_Arafinwë sat back expectantly and took an appreciative sip of his wine. He had done this many times before with his brother. "So, tell me what our dear elder brother has done this time."_

"_Set down your glass, first. Your wife made those robes for you and I would hate for you to spill wine on them. She would blame me for it." He emptied his glass again and held it out to Arafinwë who just shook his head, setting down his own glass. _

"_Not until you tell me."_

"_Very well then. I was speaking with atar, asking him to restrain our brother for all of his outbursts and speaking against the Valar. Then our dear elder brother walked in fully armed with the ridiculous helmet on his head, and tried to gainsay me in front of atar. I told atar that he has two sons at least who will do his bidding and who support all that he has tried to do here in Valinor, and then I left without saying a word to our brother. My silence always angers him. He followed me out and stayed me at the door to atar's house. There in front of the throngs of people in the square, he drew his sword on me and put the point on my breast. Then he accused me of plotting to usurp his place and the love of his atar and threatened to kill me! Right there in front of everyone - there must have been hundreds there - he threatened to take my life. When he lowered the sword, I again answered him with silence and walked away."_

_Arafinwë sat stunned, staring slack-jawed at his brother, shocked horror coursing through his veins. He picked up his glass and downed the contents in one go. Pouring himself and his brother another full glass, he spilled a bit on his desk, his hands shaking with fear and rage. He drank half the glass, then managed, "He threatened to kill you?! In front of hundreds of our people, he threatened to kill you?" He let out a string of curses in Quenya and Telerin, trying to find something to adequately express his dismay._

"_He threatened to kill you?" he asked again, shaking his head, his hands still trembling. "Eru, he has fallen even further than I had previously thought. Melkor has poisoned him even more than I believed possible."_

"_Do you know what is even worse?" his brother asked, finishing half of his glass again._

_Arafinwë choked on his own drink, gasping, "There is more? What could possibly be worse than threatening to kill you?"_

"_Atar refuses to reprimand him."_

"_What?!" Arafinwë demanded, more fury welling within him. "Well what about _'the king'_?" his voice dripped with venomous derision as he spoke. "Will '_the king'_ judge him then if atar will not?"_

"_No, _'the king'_ will not judge him either." He held out his glass for more wine, which Arafinwë gladly poured, adding more for himself. "A Maia came to me before I ever even made it here and informed me that the Valar will sit in judgment of him for breaking the peace of the Valar."_

_Arafinwë choked on his drink again, coughing and sputtering, "The Valar?" He swore as wine dripped from his chin onto the documents he had been working on. He brother handed him a cloth and they dabbed at the papers. Giving it up as a lost cause a few moments later, Arafinwë sat back still shock and swore some more._

"_He really has gone too far this time," Arafinwë whispered in awe. "He finally went too far."_

"_Little Brother, think of how bad it would have been if I had said anything in response to him either time."_

"_Especially at the door to atar's house."_

"_Especially there. I believe he would have killed me."_

_Arafinwë swore some more and emptied the decanter into his glass. Glancing at his brother he realized his brother's glass was empty again, so he arose and retrieved another decanter from the table. Pouring his brother another glass, he sank back down into his own chair behind the desk. _

"_Thank the Valar you held your tongue. I am surprised you were silent before him, but I am grateful. Very grateful and relieved. I do not know what I would do without you. And atar did nothing? What is to become of us, Brother? What is to become of us?"_

When Laurehér awoke he could not tell if he had dreamt or remembered again. In any case, his brother Olwion who taught him to sail must be a terrible ellon for the conversation Laurehér and their other brother had had about him.

XXXXX

**atar**_ - Quenya for father_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The next day, Faroniel seldom left this side. The healer expressed his amazement many times as he examined and re-examined Laurehér's injuries for they had healed so much during the night. Though the man was nice enough, Laurehér was relieved when he finally departed.

"Faroniel," Laurehér asked from the bed where he lay propped up on pillows. "How unusual is my body's ability to heal itself? It is nothing remarkable to me, yet the healer could not stop talking about it."

Faroniel looked up from the table where she sat mixing dough in a bowl, flour dusting her dress. "He was becoming rather annoying, wasn't he? It is very unusual. You were a swollen, bloody mess yesterday, covered in purple and blue splotches, and one of your eyes was nearly swollen shut by the time I got here. If you could see yourself now and understand how much you have improved. It is like a week went by overnight."

"I am sorry," he said softly.

"You are sorry you are getting well so quickly?" she asked, her voice filled with concern as she set down the bowl, wiped her hands, and came over to sit beside him, taking his left hand in her right.

He gave a small laugh, squeezing her hand as he replied, "No, I am relieved I am healing so quickly. The pain was unbearable yesterday. I mean I am sorry for…for all of this." He gestured with his right hand to encompass many things. "I was foolish in wanting to go to the village. Then when I ended up with honest work I still nearly got myself killed by Belegon. This has been so very unfair to you."

"No, it has not." She sighed and smiled back at him a little sadly. "I was foolish for thinking I could keep you contained here. You must be bored with me by now. I am not surprised you craved the company of others. It was wrong of me to deny it to you for so long."

Her words surprised him so much he did not know what to say. Why was she apologizing to him? She had been protecting him and was the reason he lived even now. He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it in gratitude. Then he was surprised even more when the sudden flush of color in her cheeks stirred him deeply. The tanner was right; she really was very beautiful with her kind, bright blue eyes, and her shimmery silver hair which seemed to defy being contained by braids and bonds. He held her hand against his bruised bare chest.

"Please do not think that I have grown bored or weary of you. I enjoy your company very much," Laurehér pressed her hand flat against his skin. "I feel comfortable and safe when you are near, for I know that even though I am the last of my kind here, I am not alone. You were concerned about me and rightly so, as I had to learn the hard way," he grimaced as he shifted his position.

"If this is what a week of healing for a Mortal feels like, then I pity that smith even more for what he must be enduring even now only two days after receiving his injury. You were being wise and I was the one being foolish, wanting to go to the village to see what it looked like. Will you forgive me?"

She smiled and this time the joy on her full, rosy lips reached her eyes. "Yes, I will forgive you, but only if you return to the village when you are well and help the smith again."

"I will return to the forge as soon as I am able. I am grateful to you for encouraging me in this. My spirit rejoices in working with the metal almost as much as it rejoices in being outside among the trees."

She regarded him with a curious expression, shaking her head, "You are a marvel to me, Elf Man, you truly are."

She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek as she had done so many times before, but he turned his head and briefly met her lips with his. Gazing into her very surprised, suddenly shy eyes, he placed his right hand on her flushed, warm face and whispered, "As you are a marvel to me, Mortal Woman. As you are to me."

They remained thus for a few awkward moments, her breath warm on his lips, then she nervously backed away and returned to the mixing bowl at the table. He covered his face with his hands and turned away, wondering what he had just done and why.

XXXXX

For the next few days, they kept their distance from each other. If he happened to come into contact with her in the course of the day, the brush of an arm as they moved about the cabin or the touch of a hand passing food across the table, she always looked at him questioningly and he always bowed his head and turned away. The day he felt well enough to return to the forge, he rejoiced for he could put this awkwardness at home behind him. Unfortunately for him, there was awkwardness at the forge now, too.

"How are you working again already? It has been four days – only four days, Laurehér!" Angadan kept saying all day long. His sentiments were echoed by the baker and the tanner whenever their work allowed them time to slip away and visit with him.

"I am an Elf. I heal quickly. That is the way of it. Just accept it and let me do my work," Laurehér finally said when the three had gathered yet again to gawk at him and comment.

"You were a bloody mess when we hauled your carcass away," the tanner replied. "How can you possibly be lifting a hammer again so soon and your face be perfect again, not a scratch on it?"

Laurehér smashed the hammer into the hot metal resting on the anvil, despite the pain it actually was causing his still bruised ribs, pretending it was the annoying tanner's head. "I am very fortunate," he finally said through gritted teeth.

"So am I to have you around again," the smith agreed from his chair, "but I am also jealous of your sorry hide, recovering so quickly when I can't even bend over to fasten my shoes yet."

"Faroniel has taken good care of you for you to be back here so quickly," the tanner observed.

No thanks to you, Laurehér thought irritably. If I had not listened to you, then I would not have noticed how lovely she is and would not have kissed her and caused the uncomfortable situation I have at home now. I am afraid to speak to her because of you. I am afraid to be near her because of you. I am afraid that if I touch her, I will want her nestled close in my arms because of you.

Laurehér said none of this aloud, but pounded his hammer so hard it broke the piece he was molding. Swearing loudly, he threw the broken pieces down, dropped his hammer, and walked away to shake out his arms and get a drink of water. He rubbed his side as he drank, the pain in his ribs growing from his efforts of the day.

"I think you should clean up and go home, Laurehér." Angadan said, rising from his chair and walking over to place a hand on Laurehér's shoulder. "You can start on the piece again tomorrow. I can tell that you are in pain and it is affecting your concentration. "

Laurehér nodded, for he did indeed hurt and was ready to stop. "Thank you. I will return tomorrow morning."

The smith helped put away tools at the forge as best he could, for which Laurehér was most grateful. When the work was complete, Laurehér took his cloak and his satchel with a water skin and some bread left over from lunch, and walked into the woods rather than follow the road back home.

He wandered for a time, listening to the voices of the trees which were awakening from their winter slumber. Their calm sleepy voices welcomed him, speaking of sunlight and the warming earth and skittering squirrels. He smiled, thinking of what concerns a tree holds and comparing them to the troubles of his own heart. The trees definitely had an easier time of things than did he.

It bothered Laurehér greatly that Belegon hated him so much just for being an Elf. Never had the man even tried to get to know him. From the very beginning, Belegon had despised the Elf his sister-in-law had taken in. After the beating he took at the man's hands, Laurehér feared what might happen if Belegon returned to Faroniel's cabin. And why had Faroniel's sister never come to visit since he had been there? Was she forbidden to do so by Belegon? Was she afraid of the influence of an Elf as well? Briefly he wondered if all of the Elves in Beleriand had been treated this way by Mortals, but he dismissed the idea, considering all of the Mortals he had encountered spoke an elvish language and not some other mortal tongue.

Thoughts of Belegon made him wonder further about his dream about his eldest brother who drew a sword on their other brother. If the incident with Belegon had happened in Valinor, would the Valar have passed judgment on Belegon for what he did to him as they had passed judgment on his eldest brother? Or would his king have passed judgment?

Again he wondered why the king of his people had not judged the sword-drawing transgression. Was it not the place of a king to keep the peace in the land? Yet Arafinwë and his brother both seemed to feel that the king would not have judged fairly even if he had been asked to pass judgment. But why? Clearly the brother who drew the sword should have been held responsible for his actions. Yet even now…Arafinwë knew in his heart that the one he respected as king of his people never would have judged the incident fairly at that time.

What had pushed Olwion to be so mean and so cruel to their brother? Why did he hate him so? Olwion had been kind to him and encouraging of him in the dream memory from the ship. He had taught Arafinwë to sail and prove himself a worthy sailor and fisherman. And Olwion was very specific in stating that their atar would be pleased with these skills in Arafinwë.

Now he was very confused indeed! Why would a Noldorin lord want his youngest son to… yes, Arafinwë was his atar's youngest son, he felt certain of that. So why would a landlocked lord want his sons to know how to sail on the sea and haul nets? That made no sense. Besides, Arafinwë felt he had a good relationship with Olwion. So, what happened that he felt such contempt for him by the time of the incident with the sword?

Then something else occurred to him. What if he had more than just two brothers? If so, then perhaps there was another who was vile and was the one who drew the sword. In his heart, he knew he had been very close with the brother who had been threatened. He also knew he had been very close with Olwion as well.

He swore out loud, startling some birds. What was the threatened brother's name?! He wished he could remember it.

Laurehér stopped walking and pressed his forehead against the trunk of the nearest tree, breathing hard. He rubbed his side where it ached from the work of the day. His head hurt now, too, from the effort of remembering. Tears came to his eyes as he again recalled that he was the last of his house. These brothers who he could barely remember and couldn't even properly name were dead anyway. Two of his brothers died in battle long ago – both the one with the sword and the one who was threatened. He felt certain of that. But what of Olwion? What became of Olwion? He truly did not know and his heart revealed nothing more.

When he regained control of his emotions, he patted the tree and thanked it for lending him support. He needed to get home. The sun had already set and Faroniel would be worried about him. He sighed and sagged against the tree again. What was he going to do about her? What was he to say to her? What could he say to her?

He had kissed her and he did not even know why. No, he finally admitted to himself, he did know why. He wanted to know what it would feel like to press his lips to hers. He kept blaming the idiot tanner for calling his attention to Faroniel, but in truth…in truth he had noticed things about her before – her hair, her eyes, her lips, her soft curves, the way she moved. And if he were most truthful, he would accept that from the very beginning, it seemed right to him that he should have a silver-haired maiden at his side. He honestly did not know if she was the silver-haired maiden who was supposed to be with him, but he knew he belonged with one.

He pushed away from the tree determined to actually leave this time and forced himself to walk in the direction of home. In the book Faroniel had with the conversation about Finrod Felegund, Finrod had said that the joining of Elf with Mortal was only for some high purpose of doom. Those seemed to be some rather strong, haughty words. What ellon would be so arrogant as to look at the one he loved and declare that he would wed her, but only because Eru had decreed that their unbegotten child or children were to be great and glorious? That was ridiculous!

Then again, perhaps Finrod was trying to make Andreth feel better about his brother not marrying her. If he himself had been in Andreth's position he would have been insulted by the implication that the love between Andreth and Aicanáro was not significant enough in Eru's eyes to be worthy of their joining. Upon further contemplation, he had to wonder if Finrod had advised his brother against the union because he did not want his brother to die of a broken heart later when the Mortal died of old age or illness. But in trying to spare his brother pain, he obviously had denied his brother and Andreth all happiness. According to Faroniel, they both died alone and unfulfilled. And Finrod had died, too, in a dark dungeon after sacrificing himself to save a Mortal who was in love with an Elf.

Then realization suddenly dawned. Finrod had sacrificed himself in part in apology for what he had done to his own brother. He enabled Beren and Lúthien to be together perhaps to assuage his guilt over keeping his brother and a Mortal apart.

Perhaps if two people love each other, then they should be together and their races should not matter. Did not all love come from Eru? He had heard that somewhere long ago and believed it then. Why should he not believe it now?

So…did he himself love Faroniel? He could not say. He felt many things for her, but he was not certain if love was one of them – at least not yet. She might be his only true friend and his only source of comfort and joy, but too many things still troubled him and too much that he should know lay hidden. When he felt more comfortable with who and what he was, he would consider his feelings again. For now…for now he would do what felt right and hope his heart would guide him and that his head would keep him from doing anything else impulsive and potentially damaging to his relationship with her.

When he finally arrived at the cabin, he opened the door and set his things aside. Closing the door, he turned and she was there with words of welcome. Without thinking, he took her into his embrace, holding her close and resting his cheek on the top of her head. She smelled of smoke from the cooking fire, and the room was fragrant with the scents of the dinner she had kept warm for him. He closed his eyes and sighed.

It was good to be home.

XXXXX


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The next day at the forge, things were better. He felt stronger. The pain was less. The baker and the tanner were too busy to harass him about his healing. The smith found activities to occupy himself as he sat unable to lift a large hammer. The sun shone more brightly and the day warmed nicely. By the early afternoon, more people were out in the street than he had noticed previously, which surprised him.

When he had occasion to look up from his work, he began to realize that most of the villagers who were out and about were female. At first he thought he was imagining it, but then he started noting the genders of those wandering about or stopping to watch as he worked and he realized that overwhelmingly they were female, females of all ages in fact.

At last he took a break from the piece he was working on to allow it to cool properly before he began the next phase of work on it. Occasionally the slight breeze wafted by, bringing him snatches of comments from the onlookers.

"Oh, he _is_ handsome."

"Look at that light in his eyes. They fairly seem to glow and I don't think it is the fire doing that either."

"Look at his arms. They must be sooo strong!"

He wiped the sweat from his face with a rag, removed his apron, and loosened the ties on his shirt and tunic as he sat down at the table across from Angadan to take a long drink of cool water. His side still pained him, but it was more bearable today. Taking a short rest should help him make it through the day or so he hoped.

"He has healed well. Not a scratch or a blemish on that perfect face of his," an old woman's voice admired.

"Mommy, can we come watch the smith work more often?" a little girl's voice begged, "He is pretty!"

Pushing his cup to the side, Laurehér folded his arms on the table and rested his forehead on them. He really wished the females would go somewhere else and stop talking about him. He looked up briefly when Angadan reached over and patted him on the shoulder in something between a gesture of sympathy and a punch of admiration. The man had been smirking and chuckling all day. Now Laurehér suspected he knew why and he hid his face again.

"His ears are shaped like a leaf," another little girl announced.

"Nice shoulders," a young woman commented.

"Yes, but I would not want to birth his babies. You girls think those men with broad shoulders are so handsome and wonderful and then you marry them and struggle to bear their broad-shouldered sons. You really should think about this before you go getting pregnant by them," another woman's stern voice warned.

"Leave it to the midwife to spoil an afternoon of fun," the one who made the shoulder comment pouted.

"Sweetie," an older woman admonished, "You are pregnant with a woodcutter's child. You had best be nice to the midwife because you will feel the wisdom of her words all too soon."

"Yes, I know," The woman replied with a sigh, "But I can still enjoy the lovely view, can I not?"

"As can I," agreed the midwife, "And he is ever so lovely to watch, is he not?"

"Have you ever considered moving the forge to, say, the middle of the woods?" Laurehér asked without looking up, his voice muffled.

Angadan laughed merrily and patted him on the shoulder again, this time good-naturedly, "Ah, but you are so good for business, Elf. So many items that people have just been making do with have come in for repair, and I suspect it is all because they want a glimpse of you."

"Glad I could be of service to you," Laurehér grumbled sarcastically.

"Do not complain too loudly," Angadan admonished. "It assures you steady work and dependable pay."

"That may be so, but at what cost to me? Can they not go make comments about someone else such as the candlemaker?"

Angadan snorted loudly. "Have you seen that man? His wife and his mother love him, but they are the only ones who would venture to call him appealing to the eyes."

"In truth?" Laurehér asked and the smith nodded, making a disgusted face to emphasize his opinion.

"Well, I have not seen him. I was merely suggesting someone who worked indoors so I would not have to hear these females make their comments." Laurehér raised his head, noting how the smith's face was red with obviously suppressed laughter. "I do not think it would be so bad if were not for the fact that it is the old women, the young women, _and_ the little ones all making comments about me."

The smith grinned a little wider than necessary and asked, "Did your own folk not stare at you as well? I mean even for an Elf you are good-looking, and that is saying something. I saw Elves a few times long ago and you really are, well, _prettier_, no, that is not the right word, perhaps _handsomer_ and _nobler_, or…I don't know. You have more presence than any of them did…If that makes any sense to you."

"No, it does not," Laurehér said, intentionally giving the smith a blank stare. He seemed to be coming dangerously close to figuring out that he was more than just a simple village smith. "Faroniel said that the Elves from Valinor are different from the Elves of Beleriand. I would not know as I have never met any Elves of Beleriand, and the only other Elf of Valinor I remember meeting recently was gravely wounded and died in my arms."

I am sorry," Angadan apologized, looking truly contrite. "It must be very hard for you when your only memories of your kind are horrific memories."

Laurehér nodded and put his head down again.

However, Angadan was not finished with him. "Do you remember any of the good times at all?"

He searched for a safe memory to recount, then settled on, "I remember one of my brothers teaching me to sail a ship on the sea and fish with nets. I do not think I was very good at it for I struggled with it, but I enjoyed it very much. And the songs he taught me while we labored were fun to sing."

"Do you remember any of them?"

Laurehér thought for a moment then sat up and nodded.

"Sing one for me."

Laurehér took another long drink of his water, then set down the cup and sang the song.

Anagadan applauded when he finished, as did those nearby who overheard his song. "Laurehér, you have an amazing voice! So what was the song about? I do not recognize the tongue."

As he explained the best translation he could give, more songs of the sea came flooding back to him. Angadan nodded along fascinated, then asked, "Do you remember any others?"

Laurehér felt his face flush as he grinned and nodded sheepishly. "Yes, yes, I do but they are rather, well, _bawdy_, and I do need to get back to work now."

The smith grinned back, "I am a man full ripe in my years. I know many bawdy songs as well. You teach me yours and I will teach you mine.'

Laurehér laughed long and loudly as he thought about how absurd this all was, but in the end he agreed. As he worked, he found that the rhythm of the shanties could be adapted to fit his hammering. He spent the afternoon singing bawdy Telerin sea shanties in Quenya, pausing to give confidential translations to the smith after every song. For hours, the two swapped songs and shared in much laughter as they worked, oblivious to the stares and comments of the onlookers who could not make out a word of what they said.

XXXXX

A few days later, Laurehér returned home early to find golden-haired children playing around the cabin. He approached cautiously, calling out a greeting as he passed through the trees and into the open near the house. The children, three boys and a girl of varying ages stopped and turned to stare at him.

"So you are the Elf," a teenage boy said as he stood staring. "You do not seem so dangerous to me. "

Laurehér replied curiously. "Yes, I am _the Elf_, and I can assure you I am not dangerous. Who might you be, Young Visitor?"

"I am Beledir son of Belegon," the boy proudly replied.

Laurehér slowed his pace even more, carefully taking in his surroundings in case Belegon lay in wait. He had nothing with which to defend himself, and his sword and armor were in the cabin, hidden away in a chest near the bed. The man had been silent and conspicuously absent from Laurehér's life since the attack. So, why were his children here now?

"What brings you here, Son of Belegon?" Laurehér asked carefully.

"We are visiting our aunt," the girl, who was clearly the youngest of the group, replied cheerfully.

"He said _son of Belegon,_ not daughter," the youngest boy complained sticking his tongue out at the girl.

Laurehér could not help smiling at her. "Thank you for such a joyful answer, Daughter of Belegon."

"Ha!" the girl smirked, putting her hands on her hips and sticking her tongue out at the youngest boy.

"I'm telling mom, Liriel! You aren't supposed to stick out your tongue at people," the boy said accusingly.

"Well you did it first, Beregond. You are always the mean one anyway," she shot back.

"I am not!"

Yes, you are!"

"Nana!" they both yelled at the same time.

Beledir sighed in deep annoyance. "They are so bothersome. Elf, I apologize for their behavior."

Laurehér smiled wider unable to help himself. How he missed the voices and banter of children – even when they were misbehaving. "Do not worry. That is the way of siblings, is it not? And my name is Laurehér. I would appreciate it if you would call me that instead of Elf. Otherwise I shall call you Mortal Boy."

"Yes, _Mortal Boy_, you should be more considerate of guests," the third boy smirked.

"Shut up, Brandir," Beledir snapped. Then he turned his attention to Laurehér again. "Thank you for telling me your name. I will be sure to address you by it from now on."

"Thank you."

Just then, an obviously pregnant woman emerged from the cabin followed by Faroniel. "What are you two arguing about now?" the woman demanded.

Beledir and Brandir pointed to Laurehér while the two youngest pointed to each other. Faroniel hid her smile behind her hand. Rolling her eyes, the pregnant woman threw up her hands in exasperation and started to scold the two youngest, but then she stopped when she noticed Laurehér standing there.

"Oh, my," she said quietly in surprise as she smoothed her dress over her swollen belly. "Ah…_hello_. You must be that Elf I keep hearing so much about."

Laurehér took a breath to reply, but heaved a sigh instead when he heard her whisper out of the corner of her mouth, "He is even more gorgeous than I was expecting. Nicely done, Sister, nicely done."

Faroniel scowled at her sister and swatted her arm in irritation. Her sister elbowed her back in annoyance while putting on a lovely smile aimed at Laurehér.

He bit his lip wondering how he should respond, knowing that this was the wife of the man who wanted to kill him and yet also the sister of the woman he cared about and lived with. Finally he settled with, "Yes, I am that Elf. My name is Laurehér. You must be Faroniel's sister Tathariel."

Tathariel beamed. "He knows my name," she whispered to her sister.

Faroniel rolled her eyes, grumbling as she crossed her arms in annoyance, "Of course he does. He has heard me talk about you for months."

"So," Tathariel paused a moment, "Laurehér, are you enjoying your work with the smith? I have heard that you are very good with your hands." She smiled coyly at him and raised her eyebrows suggestively.

Laurehér gasped in dismay, understanding full well what she was implying, having listened to enough of the women in the village talk about him and then of course the fateful conversation with the tanner. And to think this woman was Faroniel's sister and pregnant with the child of the man who wanted him dead! With an abundance of caution, he replied, "I am a smith and I use my hands as a smith must if he wishes to remain employed in the craft. "

"Yes, of course," Tathariel said. "I understand you were gravely injured, but it appears you have recovered very well. Was it my sister's practiced hand which drew you up and made you hale and whole again?"

"Your sister is remarkably skilled and she has been a great blessing to me. Even the healer in the village has said as much."

"Yes, she is…ah…_skilled_. Her long deceased husband often said as much."

Laurehér opened his mouth to respond, but was not certain what to say in response to that. He was fairly certain that Tathariel was implying some things about Faroniel which were inappropriate for them to be discussing.

"Well, I had best be getting cleaned up so I can help with dinner. It was interesting meeting you all." He made a polite bow, then went to the door. As the two women parted for him to walk between them, he inclined his head graciously. "If you will excuse me…"

As he moved past, Tathariel reached out and pinched his right buttock, causing him to yelp as he hurried through the door and promptly shut it. He leaned against the door breathing hard, torn between being appalled at the behavior of this pregnant married woman toward her sister's ah… whatever it was her society would consider one in his rather unique position …and terrified of what her husband would do to him if she went home talking about him the way she had spoken of him just now.

Through the door he could hear Faroniel berating her sister for her behavior and Tathariel arguing back. As quietly as he could, he barred the door and then went to the chest, pulling out his sword and his dagger and laying them on the bed in easy reach. Moving as quickly as he could, he washed up and started dressing in clean clothes. As he finished lacing his leggings, he heard the argument end and the sounds of the children being gathered to depart.

Barefoot and bare-chested, he unbarred the door and Faroniel immediately came inside. As soon as the door closed behind her, she stopped and stared at him.

"I am glad you were not dressed that way in front of her or she might have taken you right there at the edge of the woods."

"Taken me where- ," he started, then realized what she meant and backed away toward the bed, eying his sword. "Oh! Oh my! No! Absolutely not! I would have fled in terror from her. What is wrong with that woman?"

Faroniel stood there shaking her head, then raised her hand to push her unbound hair behind her ear. Sighing heavily she replied, "I think she is jealous." Then she looked over toward the bed and exclaimed in dismay, "You got out your sword to protect yourself from a pregnant woman?!"

He crossed his arms and glared at her. "I got out my sword to protect myself from her husband who might well come back and decide to kill me for what she has said and done."

"I do not blame you for that. But I do not think she will be telling him about the way she behaved toward you." She kept looking at the sword, shaking her head.

He turned and put on his shirt and tunic, lacing them up.

"You did not wash your hair," she observed. "You must have had cold water for washing up. I am sorry about that."

"I stank of smoke and sweat and needed to bathe. My hair can wait. I will need your help though."

"Need my help with what?"

"I am going to put on my armor."

"What?!" she exclaimed as she watched him dress. "Why?"

He put on his boots, then went over to the chest and started pulling out pieces of armor.

"Because," he explained. "If that man comes back and threatens me or you, then he will be met by an Elf lord and captain of the army of Valinor and not by Laurehér the smith."

She looked about flustered for a few moments, then reached for the nearest piece of polished armor.

"No," he said waving to another piece. "That one first."

After a few minutes, he was fully garbed and she stepped back, eyes wide, clapping her hand to her mouth.

He strapped on his sword, then put on his helm and gloves. "Well?" he asked expectantly.

Faroniel's pretty blue eyes were wide as she moved further away from him, nearly tripping over a chair. "You…you…" she blubbered

"Am I imposing enough to make him stop and think before he tries to attack me again?" he asked in all seriousness.

She looked fearful as she nodded, "You look terrifying," she fairly whimpered.

"Good. That is even better."

Cautiously she moved toward him, tentatively reaching out her hand and placing it on the cold metal protecting his chest.

He sighed and put his hands on her arms. "Why are you acting this way? You saw me in my armor when you rescued me."

"Yes, but…" she shied away from him.

He reached out and lifted her chin with his fingers. "But what?" he asked feeling concerned and surprisingly hurt by her fear of him.

"When I saw you then, you were a wounded warrior desperately in need of aid. Now…now you…you are strong and powerful and terrifying and…and…" suddenly she reached up and pulled his head toward her and kissed his lips. "And beautiful. And I do not want to lose you."

He raised his hand and smoothed her hair. "I do not want to lose you, either," he whispered, meaning every word. Then he kissed her again.

He held her to him for a long time, cursing the armor and wishing to feel her in his arms properly. The sun was starting to set when she pushed away at last.

"Well, Belegon still has not come and I am hungry. Do you think you can peel potatoes in that armor?" she teased.

"No," he replied with a grin, "but I can skewer meat."

They both laughed and he removed his helm and gloves, then helped her prepare the meal.

After dinner, he sat up all night fully armed, but Belegon never did show up.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 **

By the middle of the summer, Laurehér was busier than ever. He worked at the forge side by side with the smith, who was fully healed but asked him to stay on anyway. Additionally he helped Faroniel tend the large garden they had planted as well as work the traps. Faroniel spent much of her free time with her sister, helping with the new baby girl and tending to the other children so her sister could rest. It became a familiar site for Laurehér to return from the forge to find four- year-old Liriel and six-year-old Beregond helping Faroniel in her chores while the other two boys helped Belegon in his fields.

The children squabbled less when they were with Faroniel and for some reason they seemed quite taken with Laurehér. They followed him around as soon as he got home, which delighted him greatly, and they helped him with his chores as well. In return, he would make toys for them out of wood. Faroniel always returned them home at dinner time, never leaving that task to Laurehér for fear of Belegon's temper.

One night after returning the children home, Faroniel went to the bed and lay down on her side, clutching a pillow instead of starting on dinner. Laurehér left her alone for a time, thinking she was weary even though the children had been particularly well-behaved that day. He started preparing dinner, but she neither slept nor rose to help. Finally he reached a point in the preparations where he could leave the food to cook.

Sitting down on the bed beside her, he gently shook her shoulder. When she refused to roll over to face him, he lay down behind her. Slipping his arm under her shoulders, he gently exerted enough force to turn her toward him. When she finally faced him, her ruddy cheeks were wet with tears.

"What is wrong, my sweet?" he asked, wiping her face with his sleeve.

She coughed and her voice cracked as she sputtered, "Today, my son would have been six."

He kissed her forehead, gathering her closer to him, nestling her head against his chest as she loudly began to sob. "I am so sorry," he whispered, "I am so sorry."

He could only imagine what kind of pain she must be enduring. But what could he possibly do to help? He did not know what it would be like to lose a son or at least he hoped he did not know what that felt like. Tears came to his eyes as well as he considered what it would be like to have little ones, little pieces of his heart and spirit following him around like Tathariel's children did, and calling him Atto, watching them grow, and then losing them to something outside of his control. He kissed her head, drawing her closer still as he slowly succumbed to thoughts and emotions buried so deeply inside of himself he had not realized they were even there until that moment.

Laurehér soon found himself weeping in earnest as well for his mind filled with visions of many proud sons he sent away to die on the battlefields and the fathers and generations of grandfathers later clutching the lifeless bodies. That is what happens in war. Sons die. But they died on his orders. They were under his command. How many hundreds of sons died because of him? How many mothers like Faroniel lay weeping in the arms of others because their children would never return home? Here he was holding her to his breast trying to offer what little comfort he could when he was just as guilty of murder as the illness that stole the lives of her son and daughter.

He choked, trying to be silent in his mourning so she did not hear him crying as well. He needed to be strong for her. He could not do this to himself. The sons who died at his command did so because they chose to be there. They chose to go to war. They chose to fight Morgoth and his evil ways, and take their vengeance for what Morgoth did to their people and to their peace of mind and heart and for the destruction he brought to their lives.

Yes, that was why he fought Morgoth himself, for Morgoth had killed his own atar and his brothers and, yes, even their sons. And what if…what if Arafinwë himself were the last of his house because Morgoth had killed his own sons as well? How bereft was he truly? He did not know. He could not remember. And maybe that was a very great blessing right now, not being able to remember. Would he have wanted those memories anyway? Would he truly want to be able to put a definition to all that he had lost in his life?

He struggled to take a deep enough breath to try to calm himself. No. It was right that the sons of the Elves should be fighting Morgoth. It was right that HE should be fighting and leading the fight against Morgoth as well. But the sons of men were brief and so very fragile. And they returned not from their graves, and this fight was brought to them by the Elves. It was not their fight to begin with.

And yet…they loved and respected the Elves enough to go and shed their blood to help in the fight. They spent their sons to rid Beleriand of evil so their surviving children could live in peace. It was no wonder Belegon held such hatred for him and what he represented. He would hate himself as well.

He would hate himself as well…

A while later, he stirred himself from his bitter reverie and rescued their dinner before it burned. Quietly, he went about preparing a plate with small portions for Faroniel. Helping her to sit up, he propped pillows behind her back to support her. Taking a cool damp cloth, he wiped her face, and gently kissed her lips. She answered his kiss, then dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief Laurehér had given her. He helped her eat, then sat at the table and ate his fill.

When their meal was finished, he cleaned up the kitchen, and climbed into bed beside her. Kissing her again, he held her close and sang lullabies to her in Quenya until she fell asleep. Through the night he remained awake, whispering lullabies and keeping watch, afraid to sleep for fear she would awaken and need him. He wanted to be there for her just as he hoped that someone was there for the mothers of all of the sons he had lead away who would not return. He wanted to be there for her, too, because he wanted to see joy return to her beautiful eyes. And he wanted to be there for her, as well, because at last he realized he loved her.

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As the days sped on, Laurehér grew more certain of his feelings for her, but he never once told her that he loved her. There simply was never any need to do so. There was a soothing rhythm to their lives together, and he found he enjoyed it immensely. His dreams of other times and places stopped for a few months which brought him much relief. He was growing weary of the reminders of a past he was not even certain was his. It was sometimes very difficult to distinguish dream from reality. And the dreams he had been having before they finally stopped were most disturbing indeed.

He had seen darkness descend on all of Valinor, constant conflict within his family, his amillë weeping at the news of his atar's death, an evil prince returning from exile to claim a kingship that should not have been his, slaughtered people lying on beaches and quays, weary frightened Noldorin families wandering like refugees toward a harsh cold land. He recalled being on his knees before the court of a king, apologizing for the actions of the Noldor, and sitting in council with other lords new to their positions as well and the burdens of a leadership for which none of them, including he himself, had been trained. He did not want these memories or the responsibility which he knew was his by duty and by right. He just wanted to be a smith in a village and live in peace.

At his forge every day, he observed the villagers going to and fro about their business. He watched couples courting and parents chasing wayward children. The children…he found he enjoyed watching them the most. Their deep emotions over the simple things in their lives fascinated him greatly. They took such a delight in little things like picking flowers or learning a new skill, such anger at perceived injustice (a lot of that abounded, usually the fault of siblings), and intense sorrow over the seemingly mundane such as the death of a butterfly in a spider's web.

As the autumn chill filled the air, he saw fewer children outside, which saddened him. But Mortals were frail, and the cold which was an inconvenience to him, was an enemy to them. He knew his own Faroniel would be complaining about the cold again soon and her hands would not be warm again until the spring. Unfortunately, his dreams also started again.

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_Reclining on warm dry sand, he toyed with the little pile of brightly-colored shells he dutifully guarded. A golden-haired youth, barely past his majority, stood a short distance away ankle-deep in the water, bending over to examine something between his feet. _

"_Amillë, take these to Atto," a young voice commanded. _

_Turning, Arafinwë saw a beautiful silver-haired woman, her skirts hiked up and tucked into her belt against the rolling waves, her bare legs coated with sand. Indulgently, she reached out to take a handful of oozing dirty shells from the grubby hands of a sodden little boy, barely more than 3 or 4 years old. _

_Arafinwë could not help but smile at the woman as she turned and started walking toward him, shaking her head in disbelief. Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled as she walked, holding the shells out in front of her as if afraid of getting any of the slithery sand on her dress._

_In his mind he heard her say, _We spent all day yesterday doing this, and the day before. How many shells does one little boy need?

_Shaking his head in sympathy, he replied in kind, _He is no different from his big brother nor from your brothers for that matter, if the stories your amillë tells are true.

Yes, but he must have 200…

_But she was interrupted by a yelp amidst the crash of a wave._

_Dropping the shells, she turned and sprinted back to the boy. Arafinwë, leaping to his feet, ran to join her as well. She reached the boy first, scooping him up and bringing him to Arafinwë at the edge of the water. Carefully he wiped the crying face with his sleeve, brushing sand from the bright grey eyes which mournfully stared back at him._

"_Baby, are you all right?" she asked worriedly. "What happened?"_

_The boy turned in her arms, snuggling up to her breast. "A big wave came up and knocked me down."_

_After a brief examination of the boy, Arafinwë softly admonished, "You need to pay more attention so the waves do not sneak up on you like that, little one." _

_Joining them, the youth held out his arms to his little brother. "There was a storm last mingling and lots of pretty shells washed up on the other side of the rocks over there." He pointed to a place much farther down the beach. "How about if I take you to go and see them?" _

_Instantly healed, the boy launched himself at his brother who caught him and swung him around before settling him on his hip. "I will keep him away from the water, Atar. You can guard his shells while we are gone."_

_Nodding to his sons, Arafinwë watched them walk away, the younger one chattering excitedly while clinging to his brother's chest. _

_Cool wet hands slipped around his waist, dampening his thin shirt. Arafinwë looked down at the woman curling herself around him. His body reacted quite strongly as he noticed the enticing way her damp dress clung to her ample breasts accentuating every peak and curve. One arm went around her, pressing her closer while his other hand moved to explore the sight before him. Exerting every bit of will power he possessed, he tore his gaze away to regard her face where a look of pure seduction darkened her countenance. _

"_They will be gone for a while, and we will hear them approach when they return." She nodded toward an alcove obscured by rocks directly behind them. "Shall we?"_

_Stooping a little, he caught her mouth with his in reply, closing his eyes and delving deeply with his tongue. Passionately, she responded in kind, one hand sliding up his back to grasp his hair against his head with her other cold hand languidly sliding down around his hip to a growing cause of concern below his belt buckle. Skillfully she began to caress him, leaving him no choice but to do as she suggested._

_Panting, he broke the kiss…_

But when he opened his eyes, the darkness of night surrounded him. Faroniel looked up at him questioningly, one hand still tangled in his hair, the other fondling him below the waist band of his sleeping trousers. His own hands cupped her half-exposed breast and buried in her silky hair.

With a gasp of horror, he rolled away, covering his face with his hands. What was he doing?! What had he done?!

"I am so sorry! Please forgive me!" He pleaded from behind his hands. "I am so incredibly sorry. I was dreaming and… I…I did not realize…" He slid his hands up into his hair, grasping two handfuls and shaking his head as he begged in desperation and despair, "What have I done? What have I done?"

Her cold hand slid up across his heaving bare chest to rest against his flaming cheek. Gently she turned his head toward her. "I am not upset, Laurehér," she quietly said. "Is it really wrong that two people who have lived as closely as we have should desire the touch of each other?"

He closed his eyes and slid his hands back over them, unable to meet her gaze. "But I kissed you. I touched you," he despaired, "and I never asked. I thought you were the one from my dream and I just…I…"

She silenced him with two comfortingly cool fingers on his overly warm lips. "And if I had not wanted you to kiss me or touch me, I would have stopped you. I love you Laurehér, and I want to lie with you." Her fingers drifted away to rest on his chest as his hands fell down to his sides.

Shame, guilt, and so many other feelings raced through him. He did love her and he wanted her so badly - and that made his transgression all the worse. And worst of all, what if…

"Faroniel," he agonized, "I do not deny that I care for you deeply, that I love you, and that I desire you, too. But what if…what if I am already bound to someone else?" He held up his right hand for her to see. "Is that not what this gold ring on my finger means?"

With a sigh, she propped herself up on one elbow while reaching out to take his outstretched hand in her own. Gently running her fingers over his ring, she replied, "Yes, that could be what the ring means, but if it does, how do you know she yet lives? What if she was the one who left you? What if she was a kinslayer and abandoned you more than 500 years ago? Would she have so willingly let you go if she still loved you? And if you truly loved her so, would you not at least have kept her name sacred in your heart even when so much else escapes you?"

He turned his head away from her, staring at the dim ceiling, pondering her words. Seeking comfort, his hand closed around hers. What if she spoke the truth? But was it not the way of ellyn to go to war and leave their wives behind? But could he have left his sons as well – if he had any – if he had dreamed true? Was he really even married? He did not think his wife, if he had one, had been a kinslayer, but he did not see how he could have left her either. He knew he had loved the woman in his dream, so why could he not even remember her name? What if she no longer loved him? Or, what if she had come with him and his sons, too, and they were all dead now? Then what was left to him? He knew in his heart that Elves could marry a second time if the first spouse died, but he could remember little else about that.

He remembered his own amillë's grief when his atar died even though they were so many leagues apart when that happened. But she had known. She had felt it across their marriage bond and had known instantly that he was gone, that she was alone. He had felt the severance of the bond between atar and son as well. But this gave him hope! Perhaps he could find his family at last or at least know for certain if they yet lived!

Using as much strength as he could muster, he reached out with his spirit, searching for a bond with his wife or with his sons or even with his amillë whose death he could not recall.

But all he found was emptiness.

No sons. No amillë. No wife.

He truly was alone then with no way to ever go back home. But back home to what? To where? There was nothing left for him there now anyway. But here…he had a chance for everything here. Would it be so bad to start a new life here? The forest was safe. This village was safe. This house was safe. Faroniel with her gentle hands, her loving kindness, and enchanting blue eyes always framed by those feathery wisps of silvery hair had been the only haven he had known in this stormy time. Always she greeted his lack of memory and frequent moodiness with patience and comforting concern.

Desperately, he agonized over this choice he was making. He was thousands of years old and she had only seen twenty-seven years. In a few short years, he would lose her to the death that finds all mortals, but he would persist, he would live on alone. Now he understood the heartache that Finrod had tried to protect his brother from, condemning Aicanáro to be alone forever. But he could remember little other than heartache in his own life. Perhaps he should allow himself this time with her. Unlike Aicanáro, who ended his days in regret and sorrow, he was going to grasp what was at his hand and take what small joy he could find.

He smiled to himself. Besides, according to the tanner, he was a smith and should be good with his hands. Well…he would find out about that now, if Faroniel was willing. But there was something more he would ask of her in return, although he really did not think she would mind.

Turning on his side, he looked into the depths of her questioning eyes. Still clasping her right hand in his, he glided the fingers of his other hand down the side of her face from forehead to chin, his resolve and something else firming all the while.

Taking a deep breath, he softly said "Faroniel, I believe I am alone now, except for you. I can feel no bonds between myself and anyone else which would signify a son or a wife or even my amillë being alive – if I even ever had a wife or a son. I am grateful to you for all you have done for me. It is a debt I can never hope to repay. I admit that my feelings for you are quite strong as is my desire for you. I love you… and would have you for my wife if you would have me."

She drew his hand to her smiling lips and whispered, "I love you, Laurehér, and would have you for my husband."

He smiled in return, happiness welling in his heart so completely as he stumbled over his words, "G…giving in to our physical desire for each other will result in our marriage. Are you certain this is what you want right now?"

"Yes," she replied, passionately drawing his hand to her lips again.

"Wh…when we consummate this marriage," he found it progressively more difficult to express his thoughts because of what she was doing to his hand, "Th-…there is one thing I ask of you in return."

Her face brightening even more with a mixture of curiosity and joy, she asked, "And what would that be, my beloved?"

"A child," he hesitantly whispered. "I…I want a child, Faroniel."

Before he realized what was happening, she was on top of him, straddling his waist, her lips firmly pressed to his. Too bewildered to properly respond, he pushed her away in surprise. "Does this…" he breathlessly began, but was suddenly distracted by the gaping neckline of her gown which left nothing of her voluptuous bosom to his imagination. "Does…" he tried again as fire coursed through his veins, but found himself unable to coherently form the words.

"Yes," she confirmed leaning forward, teasing his lips with hers. "It means yes."

An unbelievable joy filled him as he wrapped his arms around her and rolled her onto her back, his mouth finding and filling hers. As he lost himself in her embrace, he fleetingly realized to his intense pleasure that the making of children was something he remembered quite well.

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**Note:** Once the Noldor left Aman, that land was closed to them and nothing passed between Aman and Middle-Earth in thought or in spirit. It is conceivable that the bonds between family and between spouses who were parted by the Sundering Sea could no longer be felt by either party until they were reunited on the same side of the sea. Also, Arafinwë searched for bonds with a son and never searched for bonds with a daughter. That's why he didn't find Galadriel.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

A week after they had wed, Laurehér lay with Faroniel snuggled up in his arms, preferring her warmth and her touch to getting up and preparing for the day's work. He moved his hand to her soft belly and sensed within her a spark of life, feeling its gentle, barely perceptible tug on his own spirit. His heart sang, but he remained perfectly still, afraid to lose that new awareness. After a time, he wrapped both arms around her and sighed in contentment. The sunrise cast a few tentative beams through the curtains as she shifted a bit and kissed his lips good morning.

With little conversation, they arose and dressed, breaking their fast and making ready for her to ride to check the traps and him to go to the forge. He did not tell her that she was pregnant, deciding to wait until she realized it as well. He did not know how long that would take, but he was content to wait.

He worked in silence much of the day, considering how the pregnancy and a child would change their lives. Soon she would be unable to ride to check the traps, so that task would fall to him in addition to his working at the forge. By that point, he would have to tell the smith that he and Faroniel had wed and that she was with child. So far, he had told no one and she had been silent as well. They both feared what Belegon might say or do, so they decided to wait until there was no choice but to tell others about their union. That way, they figured, many people would know and Belegon might be more likely to invite the wrath of the entire village with any untoward actions he might plan in retaliation against Laurehér.

Whenever Laurehér paused in his work, he would reach out with his spirit, seeking out Faroniel across their marriage bond though she could not sense a bond with him in the same way. He would then further venture to look for the child's presence and, to his great pleasure, he realized he could sense its spirit as well.

There were so many things to consider for the child, such as clothing and a bed. It further occurred to him that it might be well to simply add another room to their cabin. Had he ever built anything like that before? He could not recall. As his list of things that would need to be done grew, he felt panic welling up within him. Would they be able to afford the things that they would need? What did she already have? Would her sister be of any assistance to them or would she shun them on Belegon's orders? Then again, did he actually want Faroniel's sister around after what happened the one time he did meet her?

He shuddered as he remembered that horrific day. In anger and frustration, he brought the hammer down on the piece he had just removed from the fire. Again and again he smacked with all of his might. Suddenly he became aware of Angadan shouting at him.

He stopped the hammer mid swing and looked up at the smith.

"Damn!" the smith exclaimed.

Laurehér looked about stupidly, not comprehending what the smith was going on about.

"Look at what you did, Elf!"

Laurehér followed Angadan's gaze to the piece he had been venting his frustration on and realized with dawning horror how thin and misshapen the piece had become and just how quickly that had happened.

"What are you made of Laurehér that you can do that to iron?" The smith shook his head in dismay. "I sincerely hope I am never on the wrong end of your wrath on the field of battle. If you can do that to metal, then how by all the Valar did you ever get so wounded in battle?" Angadan wiped his hand across his forehead in shock. "Did an entire army attack you and the sheer numbers are what finally took you down? I swear you are not like anyone I have ever met or even heard of in my life. What are you, Elf? What are you?"

Staring dumbfounded, Laurehér struggled to find words to explain himself. He had become so preoccupied; he had lost his focus or perhaps become too focused. He knew instinctively that his strength was going to start to fade soon because of the child his wife carried, but that did not explain what was happening now.

Setting the hammer aside, he turned to face Angadan. Briefly he looked down at his calloused hands, wondering how he managed to focus so much strength into the blows of the hammer. Vaguely he remembered being taught to focus his anger and frustration that way – but only at the beginning of big projects that did not need fine detailed workmanship yet. There had been much in his life to anger and frustrate him and his teacher, wisely realizing this, had taught him to put it to good use.

Sighing heavily, he met Angadan's eyes. "I am sorry. There is much occupying my mind right now."

"Are things well between you and Faroniel? Is Belegon giving you trouble again?"

"Belegon is not giving me any trouble, but things are different between Faroniel and me," he ventured.

"Different in a good way or in a bad way?" Angadan asked, his voice full of concern.

"In a good way."

"What? Did you get her pregnant or something?"

Laurehér took a step backward in surprise and shock, bumping the hammer which fell to the ground. Stooping to pick it up, he banged his forehead hard on the anvil, swearing loudly as he straightened. Pressing his hand to his head, he felt something warm and wet. Then it was the smith's turn to swear.

There was a flurry of activity as the smith fumbled around for a towel, cursing foully all the while. In the meantime, Laurehér's vision went red as blood seeped through his fingers and down into his eyes. Angadan helped him away from the forge and guided him to a chair.

"Damn it, Elf! Stay put and hold this to your head. I need to go fetch the healer. I think I saw him go into the candlemaker's house a little bit ago. I hope he is still there."

The smith took off at a dead run, nearly knocking over an old woman in his haste who shouted at him with much indignant profanity. Laurehér would have laughed at her words if he were not in so much pain and so terrified by what the smith had said to him. Was he really so transparent? Was it really that obvious that he and Faroniel were going to have a child added unto their house? How did the smith guess it so readily when he himself only just realized it this day?

Briefly he removed the towel and looked at it, startled to find it soaked with so much blood. Hastily he put it back on the wound and pressed hard against it. Sindarin lacked the proper words for what he was feeling so he switched to swearing in Quenya. By the time the smith returned with the healer in tow, Laurehér felt dizzy and sick to his stomach.

The healer spent a minute or two examining him and then another while staunching the blood and stitching the gash in his head. Before long, Laurehér found himself lying on a spare bed nearby in the smith's house with orders not to even think about getting up unless absolutely necessary - at least until the following evening.

Laurehér slept, sometimes fitfully, sometimes deeply, completely unaware of day fading to evening or Faroniel arriving and remaining by his side into the night. The smith's wife laundered the bloody shirt, removing the stains as best she could.

During one of the times when he dozed lightly but with his eyes completely closed, he overheard Angadan and Faroniel talking.

"Something had him agitated today."

"I wonder what it was?" Faroniel replied worriedly.

"He said that good things had happened between you two, but he gave me no details."

Laurehér could hear the smile in her voice. "Good things have happened between us."

"So, ahhh…" Angadan ventured awkwardly. "Are you pregnant then?"

Faroniel laughed merrily. "Oh my! Is that what you said to him before he hit his head?" She laughed some more and Laurehér felt her hand gently brush his hair away from his injury. "You must have horrified him! My poor, sweet, broken, beloved elf-man…" she crooned.

But then her voice sharpened. "You know, Angadan, you really need to be careful what you say to him. I know you enjoy teasing him the way men jest with each other, but you should know by now that that sort of thing sometimes flusters him and does not always sit well with him. He…" she paused a few moments seeming to search for words. "He does not always handle such things very well, especially when he is preoccupied. You should know that by now."

"He has amazing strength of hand – much more so than any man I have ever met or even heard of. I do not believe he was just a village smith – unless they worked him to death in Valinor before he sailed and made him mighty like that. If you could have seen what I saw him do today…"

Faroniel's voice took on an air of sadness. "He lost his whole family to Morgoth's cruelty. From what I have been able to piece together from what little he remembers, they abandoned him to come here with the Noldor, and then he came here with the army and discovered that they were all dead. How much anger would you feel if you had lived his long, cursed life? How would you have channeled your rage over that? He put his into his work and it made him very strong." She paused, gliding her hand down Laurehér's bare shoulder to rest over his heart. "It made him strong, but not indestructible, and he suffers much now because of it."

"I…I…I am sorry I upset him so, Faroniel. I merely jested and I thought that…" Laurehér could almost hear the smith wringing his hands as his voice trembled with discomfort. "Well…everyone thinks that you two are sleeping together and it would make sense if you are, you being as gentle and beautiful as you are and him being so handsome and innocent-hearted. Why have you two not…you know? Or is he trying to work up the courage to ask you to marry him first?"

Faroniel laughed. "In truth, I know not what was on his mind today – only that there is certainly less blood on it now that he has used an anvil for misguided leech craft."

The smith chuckled. "Aye, that is the truth."

Silence settled for a while, interrupted by a yawn and then another one a few moments later.

"Damn it, Girl, now you got me yawning, too. Too much excitement for one day. But then again, it is always exciting ever since he came here." Angadan griped good-naturedly as he thumped Laurehér on the shoulder.

"Do you mind if I stay the night?" Faroniel quietly asked. "Sometimes he has bad dreams and will wake up screaming. I know what to do to calm him down."

"Aye, you can stay. It would probably be best for him if you did. I'll move my other boy's bed over closer to this one so you can try to get some rest while you can while he is actually sleeping."

"Thank you," she said.

After much scraping of furniture on the wooden floor and a few more visits by Angadan's wife bringing food and drink to Faroniel, Laurehér felt a tender kiss on his cheek and then on his lips and heard Faroniel lie down in the next bed close enough to take his hand in hers. She gave a gentle squeeze and he responded in kind.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too," he murmured back, then promptly fell into a deep sleep.

XXXXX

_The cold of the stone wall seeped through the fabric of his shirt and tunic as he sat hunched in a corner with his knees tucked up under his chin and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. Over and over again he reviewed in his mind his visit home, wondering what, if anything, he could have done differently. And still just as during the time when events unfolded, he could see nothing he could have done any differently. _

"_Your visit did not go as expected, Child, did it?"_

_He glanced up to see Lord Aulë enter and sit down beside him on the floor._

"_No, Master, it did not," he replied dejectedly._

"_Tell me about it."_

"_My ammë and my sisters were pleased to see me. The wedding was lovely and my dearest brother is now married to a nice Noldorin elleth. He is very happy."_

"_Sooo," Aulë prompted as two glasses of wine suddenly appeared, one in the Vala's hand and one at Arafinwë's feet._

"_My atar is disappointed in me. He said my brothers both made much more progress than I have by this point in their studies. Atar spent a lot of time telling me of the accomplishments of my brothers and how strong and gifted and wise and crafty they are. My eldest brother told me that I am "different" from the rest of them and that atar is most disappointed to have a son like me. My hair is the wrong color. My build is all wrong for a proper Noldo let alone for a Noldorin smith. He said that if an elven family could have a runt, then it would be me. He said I should stop trying to be a proper son of our atar and find some other task more befitting a member of so useless a clan as the Vanyar."_

"_Drink, Son," Aulë said pressing the untouched glass into Arafinwë's hand._

_Reluctantly Arafinwë did as he was bid, savoring the delicious fruity flavor. _

"_When was the last time you ate?"_

"_I do not know, Master."_

_A plate of berries, cheese, warm bread, and slices of steaming beef appeared on the floor near Arafinwë's feet._

"_Eat."_

"_Yes, Master." Arafinwë knew better than to argue with a Vala, so he took a bite of the bread and before long, he had cleared the plate. _

"_Now, Child, I will indeed agree that you are not like your brothers. Indeed you are more different from them than they are like each other."_

_Arafinwë furrowed his brow quizzically._

"_Each of your atar's sons was designed for a different purpose just as Eru Illuvatar designed each of us Valar for a different purpose. Having a different purpose does not make any one of us less important or less valuable than the others."_

"_Then why have my atar and my brother said such things to me?" He felt tears in his eyes, but he fiercely blinked them back._

"_Your atar awoke, he was not born. We Valar have noticed that those who awoke have struggled with parenting much more than those who were born and had parents of their own before they themselves became parents. Can you see where this might cause some problems in raising children if one was never a child himself?"_

_Arafinwë smiled slightly. "Yes, Master. But…but my atar already had a child before he married my amillë and I am his youngest child and youngest son. Should he not have figured things out by now?"_

_Aulë smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "It would seem so, but that obviously has not been the case. I think that you and your newly married brother have had an impossible standard set before you in your eldest brother. I believe, as do many others, that he is the mightiest of the Elves."_

"_But there are many things that can make one mighty and my brother only possesses some of those," Arafinwë replied bitterly. _

"_That is very true and you are very wise to see that at so young an age. Neither your brothers nor your atar even have come to recognize this truth, and they are how much older than you are?"_

_In reply, Arafinwë shifted his position on the floor and stretched out his legs. Quietly, he finished his wine, then sighed as he set the glass on the floor beside the empty plate. _

"_I do not wish to be mighty, Master. I…I just…I…" He noticed his glass was full again so he took another sip. _

"_What do you want then?" Aulë asked, his voice filled with curiosity._

_Resting his head back against the wall, Arafinwë thought about it for a few moments, then whispered, "I think I just want to be accepted for what I am and who I am and not for the things I have made or what skills I possess. I am no one to boast about, but…why do I have to be?"_

_Aulë drank his wine in silence, then replied. "You ask a lot of your family, young Arafinwë – far more than I deem they are capable of giving."_

_Arafinwë banged his head against the wall in frustration. "Then what am I supposed to do?" he did not mean to shout, but he could not hide how he felt. A tear slid down his cheek, but he angrily wiped it away._

"_You can accept that they are not going to meet your expectations in this. You can accept that they can think or feel however they wish to and there is nothing you can do to change that. You can also accept that you can only control your choices and your reactions."_

"_That is hard and it really is not much to move forward with," Arafinwë scowled in despair and looked away, feeling even worse than he had when he first arrived back at the forge. _

"_Ohhh, my child, my heart tells me that you are destined for greatness though no one else seems to see it," Lord Aulë said in an eerily knowing voice which stung and unsettled Arafinwë to his core, "Especially you. But, one day you will react differently and you will make a choice and it will change not only your fate but that of thousands. Because you have the wisdom and courage to take control of your choices and your reactions, you will rise above your atar and your brothers. You will do that which they never could have done."_

"_I will never be anything compared to them," Arafinwë said bitterly, wiping his face with his sleeve._

"_The choice is entirely yours, young one." Aulë rose gracefully and extended a hand, which Arafinwë accepted and let the Vala pull him to his feet. _

"_I do know one choice I will make," Arafinwë finally said as he donned his leather apron to begin his work. "I am not going to do to my children what my atar has done to my brothers and to me. I am going to do my best to let them be who and what they need to be and do what they feel they need to do - even if it means not being or doing what I think they should be or do as adults."_

"_You are a strong ellon, Arafinwë. I believe you just might be capable of doing that. But, my heart warns me, and I warn you as well, you have no idea how hard that will be and what that will cost you." Aulë's eyes glowed with a painfully bright red light as he handed the bellows to his apprentice. "Now to your lessons, Son. Let us see if perhaps we can give you an outlet for that anger and frustration you are feeling just now."_

Laurehér opened his eyes, looking around in confusion at the unfamiliar ceiling and walls of the room. He started to sit up, but his head exploded in pain, making him feel dizzy and a bit nauseated.

From somewhere to his right, Faroniel whispered, "Lie still, my love. You were dreaming." Sluggishly she sat up and brushed her fingers lovingly down the side of his face.

He turned his head a bit and kissed her palm. She smiled then drew his right hand to her lips and kissed it. "Are you all right? How do you feel?"

"I want to be a better adar than mine was to me," he said simply.

She looked at him a little confused. "Were you dreaming? Is that what you dreamt about?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Well, I have seen you with my sister's children, and I think you will be a fine adar when the time comes and we are so blest with a child."

"What if the time is now?" he quietly asked, reaching out with his spirit and sensing the presence of the child.

She sighed, gently admonishing, "Do not get your hopes up so soon. It has only been a week that we have been trying. We will know in a month or so if our trying has been to good result."

"What if I repeat my parents' mistakes? What if my children are miserable like I was? Will you keep me from doing that to them?"

"Laurehér, my love, you need to stop worrying so much about this. We will see what kind of adar you are when the time comes and not before. You will make mistakes as all parents do, but if you make certain that the child never questions your love for it, then that will help matters greatly. Now," she tucked the sheets and blankets around him and brushed his lips with hers. "go back to sleep and stop worrying about a future that is not yet here."

But it is here! He longed to tell her, but he knew it would be wisest to remain silent for now until she felt the truth of it as well. Silently he sent a prayer to whichever Vala might be listening, asking that he be guided in being the kind of adar he wished he had had, and hoping that he was not being foolish in seeking to do so.

XXXXX

Five weeks after Laurehér's "accident" Faroniel brought him the news that she was indeed with child and he rejoiced to see her joy. Six weeks after that he felt confident enough in what he was sensing to bring her some additional news: She was carrying twins.

She did not believe him at first, but as the weeks wore on and she grew larger more quickly than she had with either of her other pregnancies, she began to believe him. She was not cold at all that winter which she found to be a great blessing. Laurehér rather enjoyed the lack of stifling heat in the cabin, unlike the winter before where she had kept the fire stoked high enough that even wearing a tunic was almost too much for him to bear. As soon as her stomach grew large enough that winter dresses and cloaks could not hide it, she and Laurehér finally confessed to their marriage months before.

Surprisingly to them, very few people were surprised about their union or the pregnancy. In fact the most common response to their news was, "It's about time."

The smith was most accommodating in allowing Laurehér to work the traps and not help at the forge as much. His wife dug through some old chests and gave them some baby clothes which had survived the infancy of her sons. A few other friends spent the remainder of the winter making some baby items for them as well.

Faroniel's sister was delighted at the news, as were her children, but her husband was not. Fortunately his only words to Laurehér on the subject were before many at the forge one snowy afternoon.

"Elf, at least you had the decency to marry her first. But I'm warning you, you break her heart and I'll kill you."

"I love her," Laurehér said in reply, holding his great hammer before him in an easy manner which left no doubt as to its potential as a weapon. "I would never wish to hurt her."

Belegon glared but left the conversation at that. As Angadan and Laurehér watched him go, Angadan quietly said, "He has lost much favor with the villagers since he attacked you, and he blames you for that. I mean no offence to your lovely Faroniel, but you would be very wise to never leave your child in Tathariel's care even if she is your wife's sister. And another thing as well, if anything ever happens to you and your wife both, you will need to be certain that someone other than Belegon and Tathariel care for your child. I fear what that man would do to a child of yours simply because you sired it."

Laurehér stood in silence for a time contemplating the smith's words. At last he said, "I am not mortal and will endure long after this village is no more. I know not what the fates of my children shall be. But if death should find me before it claims my wife, would you and your wife be willing to help care for my children?"

Angadan bowed his head, his cheeks reddening as he took off his leather hat and wrung it in his hands. "I…I was not asking that. I…I simply was trying to caution you for you have become as a brother to me – albeit a little brother which is odd considering you are, what, three thousand years old?" He laughed at the absurdity of his words. "However, Laurehér, I would be honored to help your wife look after your children and teach your sons to be proper smiths. In any case, if you don't mind, my wife and I would love to be as aunt and uncle to them."

Laurehér smiled in gratitude, feeling a weight lift inside of him which he did not even know was present until then. Setting down the hammer he realized he was still holding, he embraced Angadan as a brother. "Thank you. I would be deeply honored to have you and your wife be as kin to my children."

XXXXX

_**ammë** - mother_


End file.
